


Faceless

by silencethroughwords



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, Empusae, Explicit Language, F/M, Fairies, Gen, Insecurity, Kali - Freeform, Men of Letters, POV Second Person, Possession, Ragnarok, Reader-Insert, Shapeshifting, Stanford Era, non-human protagonist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-04-27 03:57:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5032831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silencethroughwords/pseuds/silencethroughwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six people, they told you. All you had to do was become six people. Live through them. Observe some of the players in the upcoming end of the world through the bodies and souls of the people closest to them. That would’ve worked out well, if the Winchesters and their friends hadn’t shown you what it’s like to be human. What it’s like to be at all.</p><p>Faceless tells the story of six unique women that cross paths with some of the characters we know and love, from the eyes of a force sent to help kick-start the pagan apocalypse. </p><p>[Additional tags and relationships to be added with each update]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there o/  
> This is the first time I post a WIP here, but this is set to update every week, so hopefully that means a smooth experience =D  
> Anyway, as stated in the description, I will be adding more tags and relationships as the story progresses. This is supposed to feature six (seven, if you count the force) distinct characters, with both romantic and friendship themes with Dean, Sam, Cas, Kevin, and Adam (not all at once/character of course).  
> I post updates about this [on my tumblr.](http://silencethroughwords.tumblr.com)

**_June 2021_ **

“Ma’am?”

No. No, no, no, no—you can’t do this. Not again. You can’t run. You can’t fight. You can’t—you just  _can’t._ There’s nothing left in you, not an ounce of energy, nor a trace of will. Your back’s rested against the ice-cold tree, your body halfway submerged in snow and your arm’s extended towards the light—towards the place you  _almost_ reached. You just needed one more night, that’s all. Just one more night. Some of your wounds would’ve healed by then, and you could’ve just  _done it_ —reached your destination. Fulfilled your mission.

But now there was someone. Some  _people,_ if the murmurs in the background were any indicator.

“ _Ma’am?”_  the voice repeated, “Are you alright?”

The forest on the other side glistens, every inch of green in there contrasting with the harsh, cold surroundings. Whoever it is who’s talking to you is bound to see it, and once he does, it will disappear again to change its location.  No one’s meant to go in there—no  _human._ Except two. But not yet. You’ve been tracking this location for  _months_ now, going by  _signs and omens,_ away from any form of civilization, and if this human ruins it for you and forces it away before you can reach it, you didn’t know what you’d do.

You have to go there. You have to go there  _now_ , before he sees it.

You stick your arm in the snow and try to pull yourself up. Your legs drag on a bit, until you’re on one knee, and now all you have to do is stand up. You can do it, can’t you? Your wounds may whine and protest, but you can do it. You can pull your other leg up and push yourself upright. You can walk those few steps, and once you’re past the protective force shield of the forest, you’ll be able to relax. To heal. You can do this. You can—

_Fuck._

“Hey,  _hey_ ,” the voice says, closer now, as your worn body hits the ground. You hear shuffling, and the murmurs stop. You want to move again, to try just one more time before he  _sees—_ before you lose all the work you’ve done so far, but your body refuses to obey. “We’re not going to hurt you,” he promises, and you feel something heavy—a blanket, or a jacket, maybe—get thrown over your side. “Can you hear me?”

Your eyes are fixed on the forest, bright and green.  _When will he notice it?_

Warm fingers press to the side of your neck. “Alive,” he murmurs, and another set of feet shuffle close. “Hey, take this.”

You turn to him, all hope of him not seeing the forest now gone. He’s crouched next to you, buried in a thick layer of clothes, his face mostly overshadowed by the fur hood on his head. “Take what?” you ask, your voice hoarse.

He exhales—relief. “You can hear me,” he says, “What’s your name?”

You don’t have one. Not  _you_ , anyway. You were called a number of things— _Faceless, Observer, Servant_ —but not a specific name. Never a specific name. Why would you have a name, when you weren’t even supposed to have a body? You might’ve played around that rule, got a human body of your own, but that didn’t mean you were entitled to a name of your own. A name means an identity, which defeats the purpose of your entire existence in the first place. You’re not a unique creature. You don’t belong to a species. You don’t  _come_ from other creatures. You’re a force. Independent of nature. Independent of one god. You’re a tool, not a person.

No matter how much you wished to be one.

Your lips tremble, but no sound comes out. He sighs. “Alright,” he says, “That’s not a big deal. You don’t look Feral to me—”  _Feral._ Feral is what they called humans that went against all common sense, humans who lost their basic decency, their basic loyalties, or morals, since the rise of the first winter. It’s not a virus, not really. People don’t get infected with it, they just  _became_ Feral, and as far as you know, there’s no specific trigger for it. They just lose all ties they have to their community, to fellow humans—even to  _blood family._ Of course you’re not Feral. You’re not human. Not where it matters, anyway. “—so we’ll take you on. Help you get back on your feet,” he offers, “But if you show one sign, you’re out. Just like that. Is that understood?”

_How can he not see the forest?_

“What forest?”

 _Did I say that out loud?_ “Hoddmímis holt,” you breathe, “The safest place in the universe.”

He follows your gaze, then makes a 360. The forest’s still there. The forest didn’t disappear. Could he be one of the two humans? No. No way; the prophecy—he can’t be Lífþrasir. It’s not his time yet. This is still only the beginning of the second winter; he should be halfway across the globe away from the forest right now. Not here. Mere feet away. “There’s nothing there.”

No. No, there  _is._ Can’t he see? Can’t he feel the force shield pushing him away? It’s right there—he won’t be able to get in, but it’s  _right there._ You can see it. It’s green. It’s bright. It’s glistening. It’s everything you imagined it to be. It’s  _there_. Right there. Next to him. In front of you. What’s preventing him from seeing it? You can see it, and your eyes are human. He’s human, too; you’d sense it if he wasn’t.

“We need to go. It’s not safe here,” someone else—a woman, from the sound of it—says.

“Just give me a minute,” he says, “Hey. You. What do you see?”

“Green,” you croaked, “Bright. Glistening—”

“Okay, I need you to listen to me,” he says, “I’m telling you, there’s  _nothing there_ , alright? I’m going to take you somewhere to rest,” he says, “And to eat. You’ll feel better soon,” he promises, “Do you remember what I told you? About the rules?”

“Not—”  _Cough._ “—Feral.”

“ _Good.”_ He reaches beneath you and lifts your limp body up. “My name’s Sam.”

Sam.  _Sam._ That name’s familiar. So familiar—why is it—

“—Sam Winchester.”

_Oh._

Fuck.

* * *

 

“You okay to talk?”

Too many memories attached themselves to Dean Winchester’s voice, but for now, you have to pretend this is the first you see of him. To be fair, he  _does_ seem different than the version of him you remember from five years ago—bearded, rougher around the edges, in almost military-like apparel, with different weapons strapped to his limbs like he  _wants_ the world to know he fights creatures of myth and tales for a living. Like the wooden stick and the silver blade and the hex-bags are  _normal_ defense weapons. But, soldier-slash-hunter or not, his voice still carries that softness you’re used to. The one he spares no one he deems harmless.

And, well, in a locked room with one bed, one chair and no sharp objects inside a camp sealed off for warmth and swarming with all kinds of hunters and, you assume, other armed civilians, you’re as harmless as they get.

You drop the spoon you’ve been fiddling with for the past hour or so, curl your body inside the wool blanket and nod. He motions for someone outside to stay put and pushes the door close behind him. “Well,” he says, twirling the chair and sitting down, “I’m Dean. You met my brother, Sam, earlier.”

Another nod.

“You won’t tell us your name,” he says, “So I’mma call you Jane Doe, that okay?”

_Heh._

“Alright, look—” He leans forward, elbows on knees, “For this to work, you have to actually  _talk_. I know what it is out there,” he says, “The Ferals, the cold, the  _creatures_ —everyone here comes with their own baggage. I won’t judge,” he says, “And no one here will hurt you, I can promise you that.”

It’s not that, though. It’s not the fear for safety that weighs your voice down. But he has a point. “Okay.”

He offers you a tight smile. Straightens his back. “So,” he says, “ _Jane._ What were you doing out there?” he asks, “It’s pretty secluded—were you running away from someone? Something?”

“No.” Not  _entirely._ “I wanted to go there.”

“Mind telling me  _why?”_

During the past few months, you’ve managed to avoid that question from people who helped you find and decipher certain omens you know, mostly so no one else would follow you, or your path, and end up being the reason you have to start the search all over again, but also because most of them wouldn’t believe you anyway. It’s crazy enough that the  _whole planet_ , with both its hemispheres, is going through the roughest recorded winter of its entire history at the same time, they wouldn’t believe you if you told them what’s really going on. You know Dean, though. And Sam. And Castiel, who you’re sure is around  _somewhere._ You know them, and you can trust them. Even with this.

Especially with this.

“I was looking for the forest.”

“ _Forest?_ ” His face scrunches up in concentration. “The only forest I can think of anywhere near is maybe fifty miles away from the place they picked you up.”

“Not  _a_ forest,” you say, trailing your finger up and down the cold metal of the spoon, your back leaning against the wall. “ _The_ forest. Hoddmímis holt.”

He frowns.

“You don’t—you don’t  _know_ , do you?”

How come he doesn’t? If there’s anyone in the entire universe who’d know what’s going on it would be one of the Winchesters, if recent history’s any indicator. If he doesn’t know what Hoddmímis holt is, or its relevance to the everything that’s been going on, then  _who does?_

“Know  _what?”_

“You’re—”  _A Man of Letters. Dean freakin’ Winchester. The one who bore the Mark of Cain, helped defeat Lucifer and fought the Darkness._ “—a hunter—” You point to his obvious weaponry. “What do you think is going on? With the winter, and the Ferals…”

He narrows his eyes at you. “We have a few theories.”

“Is one of them  _Ragnarök_?”

Dean’s shoulders visibly tense. “What do you know?”

“I know the wolves will be  _pissed_ when they find out it’s not them that’ll stay behind.” The story about Garth’s in-laws is no secret to you. “Which brings me to the forest—”

“Yeah, uh—tell me about that.”

“It’s the safest place right now—no Ferals,” you say, “No  _others_ —just a forest, in another realm. The two humans that will survive  _Fimbulwinter_  will end up there.”

“And you were hoping to be one of the two.”

It’s not  _in you_ to lie. Especially to  _him_. But at this point, you want to. You want to  _so bad._ If you say you’re hoping to be one of the two surviving humans, that means you’re  _human._ That means you’re  _welcome_. That they won’t try to kill you, like any hunter would because of what you know, or what you did, or worse yet, what you  _might_ do. Telling them you’re, in fact, as human as your biology indicates is better for you.

But it’s not in you to lie.

“Actually,” you say, “I was going to destroy it.”

“I thought you said it’s the safest place—”

“It’s the  _only_ place,” you say, “If there’s no forest, there’s no Ragnarök. If they can’t repopulate the Earth like they’re supposed to,” you explain, “The angels will be forced to interfere.”

_And the angels and their god are the only ones who have the ability to stop this, once and for all._

His lips part as if he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. His legs shift in his seat, and he keeps staring at you. Studying. Calculating. You know this look, you’ve just never experienced being on this end of it before. Not with him anyway. He reaches into his pocket and clicks on something twice.

The door opens with a buzz.

“I think it’s time for you to meet the team.”

* * *

 

You had questions in mind.

Stuff along the lines of,  _“How did you find me?”,_  “ _What are you doing away from the bunker? Is the bunker not the same anymore?”, “What exactly is this place? A camp, yes, but whose is it? Who built the tech?”_  But as soon as Dean buzzed you in the large, florescent-lit, jammed conference room whose walls were lined with a fucking  _arsenal_ , your breath was knocked out of you. Even given everything that has happened—everything that you’ve  _seen_ happen—this is another level of crazy. You know them. Maybe not every single face in there, but enough to weird even  _you_  out.

Aren’t they  _dead?_

“Jane, let me introduce you to everyone,” Dean says, clearing his throat on his way in. He hops on the table in the middle and twists his shoulder to point at everyone. “You’ve met Sam—” who’s flat-out  _staring_ at you right now, his face falling into a frown. “This is Cas—” The angel gives you a small nod, and you wonder if he can see you for the fraud you are. “Kevin.” Your heart clenches. “Mrs. Tran.” She rolls her eyes. “Ellen. Her daughter, Jo. Ash.” Ash bends over in an exaggerated salute. “My other brother, Adam.” You don’t look at him in the eye. “Charlie.” She doesn’t look up from her computer, but she raises two fingers to greet you. “Jody—hey, where’s Claire?”

“In her room, I think,” Jody answers, “Last night’s patrol ran pretty late, you know.”

“Well, she can get her beauty sleep later,” Dean says, “She’s gonna want to hear this.”

“Yes, sure,” Castiel says, his arms crossed over his chest, “Let’s deprive another hunter of rest, because that  _always_ works out well.”

Dean raises his eyebrows at him challengingly. “Are you done?”

“I am far from done,” Cas grumbles, “But I do not need to repeat myself. So, for now, yes.”

“Good,” Dean says, his smile tighter than ever, “You’ll be the one to tell her she missed the  _end of the world_ announcement.”

“Wait,  _what?”_ Jody says. Everyone else is stunned to silence, eyes fixed on you.

Dean raises his hand towards you— _your turn._ You blink, scanning the faces in the room. Okay.  _Okay._ “I have reason to believe—”  _I know for a fact, because I’ve known this information for years_ “—that what’s happening is  _Fimbulwinter_ —an event that preludes  _Ragnarök._ ”

“Mind repeating that?” Ellen says, “With subtitles for those of us who don’t speak elvish.”

Charlie almost looks offended at that. But, you reckon, she decides everyone has bigger fish to fry right now.

You’re about to speak, when Ash interrupts. “Fimbulwinter means  _Mighty Winter_ ,” he explains, “Three consecutive winters where wars break and people lose all ties with their humanity before the world’s destroyed during Ragnarök—that’s, like, the pagan apocalypse.” He pauses. “Sam brought this up earlier.”

“Yeah, but Dean said it didn’t make any sense because Odin is dead,” Jo says.

“Odin?” Adam.

“Long story.” Charlie.

“This isn’t happening.” Kevin.

“Do you have any evidence to support that?” Cas.

None that you can disclose without revealing you’re not, in fact, human. “It’s a solid theory,” you say, “Plus, why do you think the angels disappeared from Earth and heaven?”

Come to think of it, how  _is_ Castiel here? Did he lose his grace entirely? Is he mortal now, for good? This shouldn’t concern you, it really shouldn’t, but you can’t help but wonder. Seeing them all, now, during  _this_ , is raising a lot of flags. But not as many as the ones your question’s raised, apparently. Everyone’s dead silent, as if they’re all thinking the same thing at the same time, and before you can ask, Dean speaks up.

“How do you know about that?”

Isn’t it common knowledge across hunter groups? You imagined so. You didn’t have a viable source for this piece of info, except that you know, for a fact, that it’s a direct result of what’s going on, and what’s going on has been confirmed and on the countdown for a long, long time. You can think up a lie. You can tap into the flood of knowledge stored in you. The flood of knowledge you spent years and energy collecting. But you’re too late, because Sam stands up and walks over to you.

“Can I have a word?” he asks, “In  _private?_ ”

It doesn’t look like you have much of a choice, so you nod and head towards the door. Someone buzzes you both out, and Sam has to tell Dean not to follow before he shuts the door and motions for you to move a bit forward, away from their range of hearing. You obey, curious.

“You’re not human, are you?” he asks, once he’s sure no one’s around. “You passed every test, but you’re not human—what are you, then?” he asks, “A fallen angel? A nephil?” he asks, “Something else?”

“Why—”

“You  _healed_ ,” he explains, tucking his hair behind his ear. “Last night, you had bruises under your eye, and a gash  _here—”_ He traces a finger behind your ear and down your neck. “—today? Nothing. And how do you know about  _Ragnarök,_ huh? Or the angels disappearing?”

“It’s not what you think,” you say, “I’m on your side here. I want to stop this—I told Dean—that’s why I was looking for the forest—”

“Listen, I could’ve told you this in front of everyone else,” he says, “You know what they would’ve done? Cuffed you. Sent you off to die,” he says, “Maybe even killed you. But I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt here,” he says, “You’ll tell me what you know— _everything_ you know, and then you’ll  _leave,_ is that understood?”

His tone’s colder than anything you’re used to from him. Right. Of course. You were  _you_ now. Not  _her._ Or anyone else for that matter. Exceptions no longer apply to you. But you just got here, and you can help them. They can help  _you._ “You don’t understand,” you say, “I have to see this through—I can put a stop to this whole thing—or I can push the process in the right direction, at least—”

“Maybe you’re right,” he says, “Maybe you’re not. But I have no reason to trust you. It’s a leap to trust you if you’re human as it is. I don’t know what you told Dean, but if you want to live, you need to go.”

“You wouldn’t kill me,” you say, “I haven’t  _harmed_ anyone. And I’m not  _going to._ ”

“So, what?” he says, “Even if I wouldn’t kill you, but they would. I’m not gonna lie to them on your behalf.”

“If you think you can stop this without me, you’re mistaken.”

“I think we’ll manage,  _thanks._ ”

“Oh you’ll  _try_ ,” you say, “See, I know you will. Just like I know you take your coffee black when you’re doing research,” you say, “Or that you chew the lids off all your pens,” you add, “Or that Dean really tried to quit drinking that one time and he lasted ‘bout six months. Or that Cas used to be an angel. And Kevin, don’t even get me started on  _Kevin—”_

“Have we  _met_ before?”

“Not face to face.” Not face to  _this_ face.

“What does that mean?” he asks, “You’ve been watching us?”

“You can say that.”

“How?  _When?_ ”

“Years ago,” you say, “Through—through people. Six people, to be exact.”

“Through—you possessed people?” he retorts, “Yeah.  _Now_ I trust you.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” you say, “I’m an  _observer_ ,” you say, “I don’t  _possess_ people, I’m—I let them  _absorb_ me. I’m—I’m like a passive spectator,” you explain, “I’m them, and they’re me. Until my mission with them is done. I don’t affect their decisions, I just  _watch and report_.”

His frown deepens, and you can see his hand clutching to the angel blade tucked in his pants. “Report to  _whom?_ ”

“Let’s just leave it at  _the ones behind this_ ,” you say, “I didn’t have any choice in this. You—you’ve all shown me what it’s like to have a choice, to  _want_ a choice,” you say, “And I want one. This is why I’m doing this,” you say, “This is why I want to stop this—I helped them, and it’s time I take it back. It’s time I take it all back.”

Sam purses his lips, his features hardening. He doesn’t trust you—pretty much the opposite of that, from what you can tell—but he lets go of the blade and crosses his arms over his chest. “If you want me to believe you,” he says, “You’re going to have to tell me what you did—and I mean to the last fucking detail,” he says, “Then I’ll decide what to do with you.”


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, the first out of six stories.  
>  **New tags** : Sam Winchester/Reader, Tyson Brady (Demon), Stanford Era.

**_2002_ **

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

_Ta—_

A huff from the other side of the library room halts your finger on the wood. You didn’t notice anyone there; it was too empty, too quiet, even for winter break, but it seems like somewhere in the last twenty minutes a boy with soft, tousled brown hair and matching hollowness in his eyes took a seat a few tables over—too far for him to see what kind of book you’re reading, but close enough to hear your insistent taps to the rhythm in your head. He scowls at you.

“What?”

He rolls his eyes and stuffs his hands under his arms.

“You’re not even _reading_ anything,” you say, “But I’ll stop if that makes you feel any better.”

“How _kind._ ”

You don’t really know what to say; he’s clearly distressed, for some reason, and is taking it out on you. Or maybe he’s just a troll. A tired, clearly overworked troll hanging out at campus when everyone else is away with their families or friends. Either way, you want to avoid any sort of conflict, so you slide further in your chair and hold your book up a bit, making a conscious effort to keep your fingers away from any hard surfaces.

Now, back where you stopped. _If a hypothetical person were to have the power to warp reality, which is extremely rare in and of itself, that doesn’t mean they’re necessarily omnipotent by default. Omnipotence can be described as the highest level of reality warping, in which the person, or rather god, in question can create reality as well as alter existing ones. Often as much as reality warpers get confused with omnipotent beings, though, masters of illusions are often mistaken with reality warpers, when the truth is, they don’t alter the fabric of reality, merely people’s perception of it, to some extent, and with great skill. Not to be confused with witchcraft, masters of illusion need not use spells or borrow powers from other beings as they’re born with the natural talent for it. For them, altering perception is as easy as verbal lying, as if their psychic abilities are an extension of their own bodies, though it can be greatly improved with years of practice and—_

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

— _guidance by a more experienced psychic. There’s a lot of speculation about the role of genetics in the making of people with psychic abilities in general, but since there haven’t been a lot of research material in the past, whether or not ‘supernatural’ forces have anything to do with this is remains a mystery, but it raises an important question: is the supernatural really ‘supernatural’? Or a mere extension of nature? Are we deliberately blind to what we can’t understand?_

God, this book’s a _mess._ Diaries of a psychic researcher or not, it’s just a lot of information in one place. This is crazy, isn’t it? You shouldn’t be indulging this. Jess was probably just screwing with you about what happened at the party a few weeks ago. But if she was, why did she stop talking to you? Is this part of some elaborate senior prank she’s in on? Jess doesn’t seem the type, though. She’s way too nice to make you question your own sanity for the sake of some stupid prank someone put her up to. But you don’t have psychic powers, for heaven’s sake. You’d know. If you were born with some power, wouldn’t you have known sometime in the past twenty-one years? Jess is wrong. You didn’t—you _couldn’t—_

“You have a problem.”

 You snap the book shut. Slide it down the table. “You know, I _really_ don’t have time for your problem with tapping right now,” you snap, reaching down underneath the table to grab your bag, “So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go be somewhere I can be less annoying.”

His arms loosen and he seems to sink into his shirt. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he mumbles, standing up as you do, “I’m sorry. Please stay.”

You sigh, your backpack falling heavy over your shoulder. “It’s no big deal,” you promise, “I’m done with that book anyway.” You raise it and flip it for emphasis. “Do you want it?” _You’re not reading anything anyway._

He walks over and takes it from you, leaning back on another table. He’s not as disheveled as he looked back there, sitting. Just radiating a wave of tiredness like it’s still final week. “ _The Reality of Psychics and Psychic Powers_ ,” he reads, “By Fred… _Jones?_ I know that name.”

You shrug, heat making its way from your cheeks all the way to your ears. You shouldn’t be ashamed of what you’re reading, you know that, but for some reason, hearing him say the title and the author out loud makes you feel silly. “Yeah, Fred Jones,” you say, “Like in _Scooby Doo._ ”

He snickers. “Well, yeah,” he says, “I think I, uh, know a Fred Jones, though.” He flips through the book, stopping at the index. “ _Heh._ ”

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he mutters, “You into this stuff?” he asks, “Psychics. The supernatural.”

_My friend kind of told me I did a lot of crazy shit when I was drunk, like move the microwave off a counter and make it disappear before it hit the ground._ “I was just curious.”

“It’s interesting,” he says, “You’d be surprised by the amount of lore out there,” he adds, “The amount of research people put into that sort of thing.”

“Why do you think that is?”

The corner of his lips curls up. “I don’t know,” he says, “Maybe it’s all real,” he suggests, “All those, uh, bedtime stories we heard growing up, you know?”

“I think they are.”

He arches an eyebrow, but the way he looks at you—it screams more curiosity and less _is she insane?_ Which is what you’ve been trying to avoid by reading the book in his hands in the first place. “What makes you think that?”

“Nothing specific,” you lie, “But it kind of makes sense.”

Okay, you were wrong before; _now_ he’s curious. He crosses his arms, still holding the book. “How?”

“I dunno,” you say, fiddling with the fabric of your sweater, “If the supernatural is real, everything else falls into place. I mean, think about it,” you say, “There are a lot of stories, all over the world, about all sorts of stuff,” you explain, “You’d think they’re less now, but I think they’re just less widespread because of, you know,” you say, “The rise of science, or whatever. But there’s no reason why both can’t coexist. Maybe magic is just science we can’t explain yet.”

“Or can’t explain _at all._ ”

“Oh don’t be pessimistic,” you say, “A hundred years ago, no one would’ve thought we could explain what we can explain today.” You tuck your hands into your pockets, more comfortable now. “We just got arrogant. We deny the existence of anything we can’t explain.”

He laughs, and it somehow makes the dark circles under his eyes fade in one way or the other. “I can’t say I don’t agree,” he says, holding out a hand to you. “I’m Sam, by the way,” he says, “I think I’ve seen you before, somewhere—wait,” he says, “Were you at—”

_Please don’t say “that party.” Please don’t say “that party.”_

“—that party last month?”

Wait, though—“You saw me there?” _What else did you see? Did you see what Jess says happened? Is that why you still remember me?_

“You were playing there, right?” he asks, “With the band?”

_So they say._ “Yeah, that’s me.”

He smiles. “Well, it was a great performance,” he says, “Have you been playing the guitar long? Or is that just one of the things you picked up in your time here?”

_Why aren’t you bringing it up?_

“…did I say something wrong?”

You shift in your stance. “I—uh—no,” you clear your throat, “No, I haven’t been playing it very long, it’s just something I do on the side, you know.”

“Well, you’re pretty good,” he says, his smile pushing his dimples all the way in. “I actually stayed for the whole thing before I snuck out.” You must’ve looked at him weird, because he immediately follows that up with, “I’m just not much of a party person.”

“Oh.”

So he _wasn’t_ there for the whole microwave fiasco. You’re not entirely sure if it’s a good thing, seeing that the only semi-sober testimonial was Jess’ and it’s scary as _hell,_ but with _this_ smile and _that_ hair and the ease in which he just _talks_ , intolerance for tapping aside, you’re not exactly complaining. Maybe you can just forget about the whole thing. Get it out of your mind once and for all. Maybe it _is_ just a prank and you’re not secretly some _psychic._ Or some mentalist, or whatever the hell Jess’ words meant you are anyway.

“You know, we have a gig in two weeks.”

“A gig?”

“Yeah,” you say, “The band, you know. It’s just a charity fundraiser—some event the graduate students are organizing—so it’s not really a party or anything,” you say, “Attendance is open to everyone, so, if you’d like to come…”

Sam breathes out a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, “ _Yeah_ , that would be great.”

“Awesome,” you slide your bag down your shoulder and unzip it, snatching a corner of a paper and bringing out a pen. “It’s at 8, not next Saturday, the one after that,” you say, scribbling down the address (and your name and number because, you know, it wouldn’t _hurt_ ) “It’s not necessary, but if you want, you can bring some cash, y’know, to donate,” you say, “But it’s not a requirement, you just, um, _be there_ , that would be—that would be nice.”

A+ Social Skills.

“Well, as long as you promise you won’t tap on your guitar…” He winces. “Sorry. That was— _bad._ ”

“Can we just ignore the awkwardness and see each other in a few days?”

“Shit, _thank you_ , yes,” he takes the note from you, “Looks good. I’ll, uh, give you a call. Maybe we can carpool or something.”

* * *

 

Everyone knows the crazy girl.

She’s the one who doesn’t talk much, or the one who talks a _lot._ She’s the one who _asks,_ who _insists,_ who starts fights because of details she notices, or the one who keeps quiet about everything she happens to observe. She’s the one who demands attention, or the one who buries herself away from it. She’s the one who expresses her feelings, or the one who’s ‘cold as stone.’ She’s this one, or that one. Every girl is the crazy girl at least once in her life. Every girl is at least a degree of crazy throughout her entire life.

So what’s _one_ level up your crazy scale?

Tonight was supposed to be the first night your band got back together since _that_ party. A step back to normal. A step away from the rumors, and the doubt, and the research you’ve been doing. Sure, they told you there were no rehearsals—that no one had time for rehearsals—before the fundraiser, even though you _always_ find time to rehearse before any gig, and _sure,_ no one called to confirm how you’re all getting there, but you didn’t expect _this._ You didn’t expect them to stand in a line, in the room one of the organizers told you the band was in, with an extra member on the side, asking you what you’re doing here.

_What do you think I’m doing?_ “We have—” Your eyes are fixed on the new girl holding a guitar. “What the hell’s going on?”

No one answers. Three people—three fully-grown adults—shrug and look away and pretend none of this was a big deal. Like you should know on your own. Like you should’ve guessed. It’s not until the new girl excuses herself from the room that the lead singer—Paige—steps forward, a hand stroking her bare shoulder, tucking into her blouse. “This doesn’t have to be any harder than it already is,” she says, “We do this for fun. You know that. But we still have rules.”

“I didn’t break any rules,” you say, “If this is about what Jess and the guys said—”

“It is, actually,” Paige says, “Well, _sort of._ ”

“Look, of course we know you didn’t do the crazy shit they said you did,” Lou, the drummer, starts.

“—but we know you got drunk enough for them to even say those stuff,” Paige finishes.

You flinch. You’re not normally like this. You know you’re not. _They_ know you’re not. “Since when is there a _rule_ against drinking after a gig?”

“Since everyone’s been talking about you like some sort of drunken campus legend,” Paige retorts, “Look, we don’t like this any more than you do, but, well, you see how it is.” She points at the door, referring to the other guitarist. “To be honest, I didn’t even think you’d come.”

_Why wouldn’t I? This is my gig as much as it is yours—_

“Actually, that’s sorta my fault,” Lou says, raising an awkward arm, “I was supposed to call her, but, uh, you know how it is back home—I kinda forgot?”

Paige pinches the bridge of her nose. “Right. Of _course_ ,” she says, “I’m sorry this has to be like this. If I’d known…”

The trailing silence and the thick tension in the atmosphere makes you feel small. Insignificant. Intrusive. So you offer her a small smile, readjusting your guitar on your back and just wave a hand goodbye. “It’s okay,” you say, “It’s fine,” you repeat, not sure whether you’re trying to convince them or you, really, “Um, good luck with tonight,” you add, “Really. And give the new girl my best wishes,” you say, “Or something.”

Part of you waits for the dramatic, clichéd, “But wait!” on your way out, but, as expected, that part never comes. Only the lingering guilt in your gut and the weight of your instrument on your back as you make your way downstairs, to the garden where the fundraiser is just starting. Everyone’s dressed up, scattered in lumps across the place, topped with a web of sparkling baby lights and swimming in a hum of slow music, just something to make the chatter more bearable and less chaotic. If you were dressed any better, you would’ve stayed, but in jeans and a less-than-formal top, you’re bound to stand out, which would’ve been acceptable if you actually played, but that’s not going to be the case tonight, so.

Cab it is.

You set the guitar on the ground next to you and slide your cellphone out of your pocket. Before you could dial, though, someone taps your shoulder. “Are you leaving, or did you just come?”

“Sam!”

He’s different this time. Something’s different about him. Maybe it’s the way he’s smiling, or the way his face looks more _radiant_ , happier. Maybe it’s the fact that he showed up after he told you he might not be able to, which you thought was a politely-worded excuse out of the whole thing. But he’s here now. And he’s smiling. And everything feels _better._ More colorful. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans, over his shirt. “ _Hey_ ,” he says, “I hope I’m not late.”

You shake your head. “No, no,” you say, “I’m just—I won’t be playing tonight,” you say, as chipper as you can manage, “I thought you weren’t coming…”

“Nah, I wouldn’t miss it.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Okay, so _maybe_ my roommate’s not really gonna be much trouble tonight,” he says, “Not to me anyway,” he grumbles, “But I’m glad I caught you. You got somewhere else to be right now?”

Home. With a bucket of ice cream. And no pants. “Not really.”

“Do you want to go inside? I asked around,” he says, “Apparently, the food’s supposed to be good.”

“And free.”

“That, too.”

You laugh. “Well, if you want to go inside, I won’t stop you,” you say, “I just don’t think I’m dressed for the occasion.”

“What are you talking about?” He takes a step back and evaluates both his outfit and yours. “We look _fine._ ”

“Everyone else is in suits,” you say, “And _dresses_ and stuff.”

“I thought you said it’s open to everyone.”

“I thought you’re not much of a party person.”

“ _I_ thought this isn’t really much of a party.”

“Ugh.”

“Okay, fine, we’ll play it your way.” His smile’s crossed charming and gone straight to _what-was-I-thinking-about-again?_ “But I’m not calling it a night _yet_ ,” he says, “So. Where are we headed?”

There’s this tiny part of you that’s aching to get out of everything, to just go home and be as productive as a potato—the same part that didn’t protest to the fact that you were cast out of your band for the night, and possibly a lot of nights after that. You’re used to being _that_ person. It’s part of the reason why you’re even spending your winter break halfway between campus and your apartment and not, say, with your family or away on some trip somewhere. But there’s something about Sam that makes you want to say yes. To just see where this goes. It can’t hurt, can it?

Besides—“I’m hungry,” you announce, “So, somewhere with food.”

Sam raises his shoulders. “How do you feel about pizza?”

“Perfect.”

“Okay, what else?” he asks, “We go grab some pizza, and then…”

“…eat it?”

“No, come _on_ ,” he says. When you just shrug, he adds, “I might have a place in mind. But I don’t know if it’s your _thing_ , you know.”

“Well, what kind of place is it?”

He runs a hand through his soft hair. “That’s the thing,” he says, “If I tell you now, it’ll just ruin the _charm_ of it, you know?”

Which brings you back to the crazy scale.

You don’t know him. You don’t know his last name, you don’t know where he lives, what he studies. For all you know, he might be a drug dealer. Or an international spy. Or someone who spills ketchup all over their fries instead of just using it as dipping. He’s given you exactly zero reason to trust him, except for the fact that he looks cute as a button. A gigantic button, but a button nevertheless. Still, there’s not one logical reason to trust this person, yet you feel inclined to anyway.

Everyone thinks your judgement sucks anyway. So you might as well.

“Can you at least tell me if I can bring my guitar along?”

* * *

 

Things you didn’t expect to happen to you in this lifetime but ended up happening today:

1-     Being cast out of a gig on the same day of said gig because someone failed to use a phone in the 21st century.

2-     Sam Winchester (you overheard him saying his last name to the pizza guy. Still counts.)

3-     Pineapple pizza.

But most importantly:

4-     Holding a flashlight for your sort-of-friend, sort-of-date, sort-of-you-have-no-damn-clue, as he _picks the lock of one of the buildings on campus._

You want to ask. You want to break that stupid chant in your head to _just trust him_ and listen to the pounding in your chest and the shivering of your fingertips and just _run._ Throw that flashlight to the ground, dump the weird-smelling, damp-bottomed pizza boxes _somewhere_ and run the other way. Preferably until you’re out of possible-outlaw-with-really-great-hair’s range of vision. But you don’t. You stay there, and you hold the piece of plastic and you continue defying common sense because apparently that’s who you are now. Yup. Just a big, fat ball of flat-out insane. What’s next? A literal bomb? Maybe. Probably. That’s who you are now. A crazy person. A crazy person and an outlaw. Who eats fruit on a pizza.

“You really have a problem with tapping, don’t you?” The door clicks open and a mischievous grin finds its way to Sam’s face. “There we _go._ That’s the last one. I think.”

He steps into the dark room, and you want to follow. You _do._ Okay, maybe not entirely. Which is probably why your feet won’t listen to you right now. “Okay, I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume whatever we’re doing isn’t exactly _legal_ ,” you say, “And that’s—uh—that’s fine. Actually, it’s not. But I won’t tell. I promise. I’ll just go and we just never—I mean, I’m not trying to be _mean_ or judgmental or anything, but I—yeah—”

“Dude, relax,” he says, “I mean—Not Dude. Not dude. Uh—it’s not illegal, last I checked.”

“I might not be a lawyer but I’m pretty sure what we just did is called _breaking and entering._ ”

He rolls his eyes. “Relax. I’ve done this before.”

Oh. Oh, yeah. You should definitely relax. See? He’s broken into places before! So it’s no big deal now! Nothing’s a big deal. You’re just making it a big deal because, maybe, just maybe, you’re _breaking and freakin’ entering._

“Oh my God,” he snickers, “You seriously need to calm down. It’s not illegal, I promise. We won’t get into any trouble. Here—” He tucked his (freaking) toolkit into his pocket and held out a hand for you. “It’s one more door.”

Against your better judgement, you take his hand. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” you mumble as he leads you towards the other door and shuts the previous one behind him. “I’m going to die and they’ll never find my body,” you say, louder this time, “I don’t want pineapple pizza to be the last thing I eat before I die.”

“Okay, realistically speaking, I wouldn’t go through the trouble of climbing nine floors and breaking through three locks in the process if I was just planning on killing you.”

“My conscious brain is trying to convince my subconscious that you’re kidding,” you say as he holds onto a knob. “But it’s not working.”

He stops and lets go of your hand. Turns around. Holds the flashlight. “I promise it’s not a big deal,” he says, “I get that I asked you to trust me on this, but it’s really not a big deal. It’s just a place I like to visit sometimes when I want to be alone. I’ll open the door first and go in—if you don’t want to be here, that’s okay, I don’t want you to be scared.”

Almost on a defensive note, you say, “I’m not _scared._ ”

And you’re right. You’re not. You’re terrified, that’s all.

“Yeah. Sure.” He takes a step back and turns the knob. “Sorry if this is a bit anticlimactic.”

And it is. But it’s also _not._

As soon as he opens the door, you’re met by a chilly breeze and _quiet._ The sky, the stars, the roof, empty and grey and damp but for a box in the corner, the view of the rest of campus when it’s so, so empty—it’s all _quiet._ Peaceful. Anticlimactic in the best way. Could he still throw you off the building? True. Theoretically. If he’s some sort of psychopath, which he isn’t, not to your best judgement anyway. But he doesn’t stay and introduce you to his hideout; he strides over to the corner facing the door, where the large, cracked wooden box stays. He gives the lid a push then a pull, then grabs a red, huge, rolled…comforter? _Bed?_

“Told you it’s not my first time.”

You walk over to him, making sure the door opens from the outside as well before you pull it close and put the pizza down, hugging yourself to keep warm. “So you, uh, you come here often.”

“Often enough,” he nods, laying out the comforter on the ground. “You still freaking out?”

“I _wasn’t_ —” At his raised eyebrows, you scoff, “Shut up.”

He grabs the pizza and sits down, patting the space next to him. You shimmy the guitar off your shoulders and lay down, your heart still thumping in your ears, your hands crossed underneath your head. “I come here to study,” Sam says, “Sometimes—just to sleep.”

“Noisy roommates?”

“Not…really,” he says, “I mean, Brady’s been a pain in the ass recently, but he hasn’t always been like that.”

“Oh?”

He shrugs, snatching the pizza box’s lid up and handing you a slice. “Remember,” he says, “If this doesn’t taste good, you only have yourself to blame.” You roll on your side to free your hand. The pizza is exactly as greasy as it looks. “We could’ve been eating _gourmet_ right now and annoying people with our choice of clothes.”

You fold the slice over and stuff your face with whatever’s left of its warmth. “Sorry about that,” you say, “You know, you really didn’t have to miss it just because I didn’t wanna go…”

He crosses his legs, inspecting the food in his hand. “Nah, it’s alright,” he says, “I only went to see you anyway.”

Your eyes cast down, and for a second sitting there, like this, eating, makes you feel more self-conscious than ever. “C’mon. You don’t know me.”

Sam’s grin is contagious. “No, you’re right, I don’t.” He bites down half the slice in one go. “But I want to.” He swallows. “Hey, you ever get around to finishing that book you were reading the other day?”

“Not really,” you say, “But I picked up a few others.”

“Also about psychics?”

“What can I say? It’s an interesting subject.”

He hums in agreement, but doesn’t say much else. Both of you just eat, relishing the silence, except for the crackling of the synthetic fabric beneath you and the rubbing of the pizza with its box as you drag the slices out. You’ve always been the girl in the corner, the one who observes more than anything. You’ve met quiet people before, too, but they’ve never really taken as much of a liking to you as you would want. Which brings you back to your list.

5-     Someone spending their usual alone time with you. Because they want to.

You know you should be smart about this. Fact is, you know what to do and what to say to catch other people’s interest. You observe them, like you’d observe a movie, and try to insert yourself in a way that makes sense to the given situation. But not today. Today, it’s not a movie. Today, you’re worn out, and not because you’ve really _done_ much but because you’ve _seen_ more than you thought you’d see on a single given day. You’re here, now, with him, and it’s _weird_ and it’s _good_ and you don’t want to insert yourself into it. You want to be genuinely part of this. You have nothing to lose, nothing to compromise. If you talk now and he decides he finds you too…whatever the hell you are, then so be it.

But you have a feeling he won’t. For the same reason you trusted him. Which makes you stupid, you know, but you don’t really care about that. You don’t care about that at all.

“Do you ever feel lonely?” you ask, “Even though you’re not alone. Like,” you say, “There are people around you, and you know they care about you but…”

“…but you don’t belong there. You don’t fit,” he completes. “Yeah. I know what that’s like.”

“It’s like everyone’s in on something the whole time and you’re just…there. And it’s not like they hate you, y’know? You know they don’t, but you’re, like, _expendable,_ or something,” you say, “Like you don’t matter.”

Sam’s eyes soften. “Does that have anything to do with what happened at the fundraiser? Why you didn’t play?”

“Yes. No. Maybe,” you say, “I don’t know. It’s just so frustrating sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Sometimes I appreciate being alone,” you say, “It’s nicer. And I get to _think_.”

He grabs another slice. “Amen to that,” he says, “You know, I kinda grew up on the road, with my family,” he says, “We used to move a lot—”

“Military?”

“Yeah. Yeah, kinda, yeah,” he says, “So this one time, I’m tired of it—everything—my brother, my father, the school, all of it,” he says, “I think I was maybe twelve? Thirteen? I just packed everything I could find and left. I found a small cottage, in Flagstaff, and I stayed there for two weeks. Man, those two weeks were the _best._ I basically lived off Funyuns and Mr. Pibb—and a couple of days into it, I was roaming town and I found this stray dog. I took him in, called him Bones,” he says, smiling fondly at the memory, “Point is, I like this—I liked the cottage, I like it _here_ —” He spreads his arm as if to say— _this roof._ Or this place—maybe Stanford as a whole. “Because I get to be alone. I get to be me. Maybe you should have something like that, too.”

“My own roof?”

“Yeah,” he says, “Your own place. Somewhere for you to think. Away from studying, or playing, or whatever it is you do with your time.” He pauses. “You’re welcome here any time.”

“Well, it’s not like it’s _yours._ ”

“Hey, _it is_ ,” he says, “Other people come here, too, sometimes, and I’m pretty sure campus security just ignores us as long as we don’t do anything, like throw a party or something,” he says, “Which works perfectly for me—”

“Because you’re not a party person.”

“Are _you?_ ”

“I thought I was,” you admit, “But that last party—ugh.”

“Something happen?”

“I don’t know, I sort of blacked out,” you say, “I can’t remember anything from that night, but I hear _stories._ ”

“Oh God.”

“Oh yeah.”

He laughs. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty sure everyone’s been through something similar at some point—” _Not microwave-flying-and-disappearing-similar, no._ “You know, my brother—” He’s interrupted by a vibration sound coming from his pocket. “Gimme a second. That’s Brady.”

You land on the comforter one more time, crossing your legs in the air.

“Hey—what? What’s that? Brady, can you hear me?” Pause. “Hey, uh, yes. Yes, I’m his roommate. What’s going on? Is he okay? Of course. Of course. Yeah, sure. I’ll be right there.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Everything is the opposite of okay,” he says, “I, uh, have to go. Brady got into trouble at a club and I just—I have to go.”

You put the rest of the slice in your hand back in the box and smooth your jeans as you stand up. “I’ll come with.”

“You will?”

“Yeah, I’d love to help, if I can,” you say, “And at this point, anything’s better than pineapple pizza, if you ask me.”

* * *

 

Science has explained _déjà vu_.

They say it’s an anomaly of memory. An error. A lie your brain tells itself to justify the reaction it induced in your body, whatever it is. If science is right, you’ve never even been here, to this specific club. You’ve never seen this same array of lights flashing over the sea of people, dancing, breathing, _being_ against you, encapsulated in a cloud of music. You’ve never smelled that distinct scent of whiskey and _way_ too much flowery air freshener. You’ve never pushed your way through the same dancefloor. You’ve never been distracted by the bright flashes coming from the direction of the small stage.

“Holy shit, it’s _you_.”

Science lied.

It’s not like that party was the first time you got drunk. It doesn’t _work_ like that. Your memory got muddy sometimes, yes. You lost track of certain events, yes. But blacking out? As in, losing a whole chunk of the night—the whole goddamn night—and not even remembering where you went _before_ it all apparently started? You don’t remember being here. You don’t remember anything about this place. But apparently, your senses do, and so does the bartender. Sam excused himself a while ago; they said Brady was somewhere in the back, so you found your way to the bar. Just like you did that other day, if your guess is any good.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, averting your gaze from the bemused, bearded man, “Can I have a club soda?”

“You still don’t drink, huh?” he asks, “You know, I know Paige, and the guys,” he says, “I won’t card you if you won’t tell.”

“Wait.”

He stops halfway through cleaning your glass. “What?”

“You were there,” you say, “The night of the party.”

“Of course I was.”

“I didn’t _drink?”_

He frowns. “Not on my watch, you didn’t, sweetheart,” he says, pouring the soda, “I dunno what you got up to when y’all left, though, so I can’t tell. But let me tell you this, you pulled one _hell_ of a magic show.”

“A magic show?”

He nods. “Yeah,” he says, “That thing with the lights, or whatever—even I thought you were really levitating.”

He offers you the drink you ordered and you snatch it, every bit of you cold, buzzing, _confused._ If you didn’t drink, at least for the ‘concert’ part of the night, which everyone swears you were present for, then how come you don’t remember it? How come everything about that night’s a complete mystery to you? Even if you were slipped something, or you willingly, for some reason, _took_ something, how can it have that sort of effect on you? _How?_

You pay and decide you shouldn’t dwell on this anymore. If you took _everything everyone_ said about that night for granted, you’d lose the last bit of your mind, and you needed that if you were ever going to have a career after college. What did that guy by the door say again? “ _Second door to the left after the restroom”_? Yeah. Probably. You surf the crowd one more time, not really giving a damn when some of the coke spills on an unsuspecting dancer’s top. The ‘back’ is quieter. Calmer.

Sam. Focus.

You knock on the white door, but it’s nearly silent compared to noise erupting from every corner, even if it’s more muffled back here than out there, so you let yourself in. Sam’s nowhere to be found, but there’s a drunk-looking fellow on the ground, eyes and cheek bloody and swollen, swimming in the same jacket Sam had in his car, a pair of torn jeans and one shoe. Brady, you assume. Damn, you knew it was bad, but not _that_ bad.

“Brady?”

He lifts a lazy eye from the ground to meet yours. “M-aybe.”

“I’m, uh, a friend of Sam’s—”

He sits up, a bit too sharp and too quick for a drunk, beaten dude. “ _You’re_ a friend of Sam’s?”

Why’s he saying it like your face is unacceptable? “I came here to help.”

“Oh no,” he says, “Your kind? Never helpful.”

_Your kind?_ What kind? Girls in jeans? Girls in casual tops? Brunettes? _Girls?_ Yeah, that might be it. Did he get drunk because a girl rejected him, or something? “I’ll—uh—wait outside, if that makes you more comfortable.” _Doucheface_. “Just tell Sam when he gets back.” _Wherever he is._

He narrows his eyes at you. “You stay away from Sam,” he says, his tone less drunk by the syllable. “This is bigger than you and whoever sent you, I can promise you that.”

Maybe his tone’s less drunk by the syllable, but _he_ isn’t. “ _Okay_ ,” you say, turning around towards the open door, “I’ll be outside.”

The door snaps shut, as if someone slammed it. What the… “I wasn’t asking.”

His voice is closer. Much, _much_ closer than you’d expect. He’s standing right behind you, isn’t he? Your breath catches in the back of your throat and you’re tempted to spill the soda all over him and sprint outside, but you freeze. “You’re hurt,” you remind him, “I’m sorry if my presence upset you, but—”

“Don’t play coy with me,” he grabs your shoulder and pulls a bit, as if he was about to spin you towards him, before he falls on his back, a startled look on his beaten face.

Yup. Drunk as a skunk.

Right then, the door reopens, and a tired Sam emerges with yet another layer of his clothes lost; this time, his shirt’s wrapped around some ice and the t-shirt you had no idea he was wearing’s damp. He greets you—a small nod of acknowledgment in your general direction—and switches his attention back to his roommate. “Take this,” he says, handing him the ice, “C’mon, let’s go.”

* * *

 

The next thirty days passed in a blur.

Your last quarter before graduation has started with a bang, as they all do. A ton of work, planning for a graduation project, the whole shebang, but that’s not what has you on edge. That’s not why you moved out of your shared apartment and, despite your savings’ screams of terror and 45-minute trip to campus every day, into a place of your own. You’ve come to terms with the fact that _the_ party would never leave you alone, that there will always be a missing piece somehow. Something happened that night, something you can’t explain, and it will haunt you forever.

Or, well, until you figure it out.

Your new apartment, instead of looking like that of an aspiring filmmaker (whatever that look _is)_ , looks like a librarian’s worst nightmare: books scattered everywhere, notes, papers, print-outs, carefully structured maps all over the kitchen floor, stained with milk and nights’ worth of research. Someone once told you, “If it happened to you, it had to have happened to someone else, too.” If you lost a night of your life and had everyone tell you that you were practically David goddamn Copperfield, there had to have been other incidents like this, right? At some point. So you searched—blogs, websites, books, news, _lore_ , everything you could find. Did you get a few theories out of it? Yes. Did it help?

Bits and pieces of that night came back at the most inappropriate times, whether because something reminded you, or someone plain-out told you. It engulfed your life in a way that made you question every decision you made and everything else around you. You saw things that could either be the work of the devil or coincidences blown out of proportion, you couldn’t tell. No one could, even if they tried. The only sane person in this whole thing was Sam, probably. You didn’t tell him, not really. You just told him you were moving, and he helped you move your stuff, and talked to you on the phone a few times after that (Brady didn’t become less of a pain in the ass after winter break was over), but nothing more than that. It’s not like you saw him much anyway.

Which is why it takes you a bit by surprise when he shows up on your door.

“She lives.”

“What are you doing here?”

He frowns. “Uh—”

“Not that I’m not glad,” you correct, sighing and taking a step back, “You know what, come in.”

He shrugs his jacket off on his way in, and you shut the door behind him, tucking your (admittedly wild) hair behind your ear and pulling your PJ sleeves to your fingertips. “You haven’t been answering your phone.” _Did the phone even ring?_ “Jess said she talked to…Paige? Who said she hasn’t seen you either.”

“Jess?” you croak, “You know Jess?”

He nods. “We, uh, met a couple of weeks ago. Brady sort of introduced us, but that’s not the point,” he says, eying the mess around you, “What’s going on?”

“That’s the opposite of nothing,” he mutters, squatting down to pick up a few papers, flipping through them. “Is this research?” he asks, “For a project, or something?”

_Project Save My Sanity, yes._ You shrug.

“Psychics,” he says, “ _Demons_ , illusions, hallucinations,” he adds as he goes through more stuff, “You’re starting to freak me out here.”

Of course. _Of course._

Just like you freaked Jess out. And that bartender. And your friends, and everyone at the party, and that lady at the supermarket the other day. It was only a matter of time anyway, before what you can’t explain catches up to the one constant aspect of your life nowadays. You clutch to your elbows, and once again, you feel small. Helpless. “I think you should go.”

He looks up at you. “No,” he says, “Not until I know _this—_ ” He gestures to, well, _everything_ , “—is not what I think it is.”

“And what would _that_ be?”

“You tell me.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” you say, “Just say it how it is. I’m insane,” you say, “I’ve lost my mind. I’m throwing my future away. What else? I’m delusional, and did I mention _insane_ —”

“Whoa, hey, none of that,” he says, “Trust me, I don’t think you’re insane if you believe in this stuff,” he adds, “At all. I just—tell me what brought it on,” he urges, “I promise, I won’t judge.”

“I know you won’t,” you say, “Just like you don’t judge Brady despite everything—” The parties, the drunkenness, the _drugs. “—_ but I’m not Brady. You don’t have to take care of me.”

He stands up, the same frown haunting his face. “I _want_ to—”

“No. Nope. None of that either.”

“What?”

“I’m _not Brady_ ,” you repeat, “And I’m not about to become another Brady, Sam.”

You talked to him about that before—about how Brady’s presence in his life was more of a burden than anything else. Did you think the poor bastard deserved help? Of course he did. Everybody does. But sometimes it’s also important to know where your limits stand, and that’s where Sam was, in your opinion, completely blind. Just because Brady was nice to him his first year, he feels like it’s his sole duty to look after him after the change that happened to him no matter what, even if he doesn’t want help, even if he doesn’t want to stop. It hurt him, and it exhausted him in so many different ways, and you pointed it out a couple of times, but he wouldn’t take it. He wouldn’t accept that he had to stop, that he had to rest and take a moment to think of what taking care of Brady was doing to _him_ , but he wouldn’t.

Just like he won’t with you.

If it’s supposed to make you feel well-taken-care-for, it doesn’t. It just makes you feel more of a freak than you already did, and Sam seems to catch that, because the next thing he does is take off his shoes and climb his way to the middle of it all—the one empty space in a sea of papers where you usually sit. “Honestly,” he says, “I don’t even know why you keep bringing Brady up. I can see you’ve done a lot of work here,” he says, “But it could use some sorting.”

“…what?”

He pats the spot next to him. “Okay, first of all? Demons and psychics are not in the same category,” he says, reaching out to grab a pile of papers, “Sometimes they overlap, but not always. Same goes to _hallucinations_ and psychics—but you know what hallucinations are usually associated with?” he asks, “Djinn. I think I read that somewhere,” he says, “Or, well, drugs, but I’m guessing that’s a whole different type of hallucinations we’re talking about here.”

You want to come up with something witty, but all you do is stare.

“Let’s just say I have some experience with this sort of stuff.”

You walk over. Sit next to him. “Some?”

“It’s a really long story.” He drops the papers in his hand and props his knee up, tucking the other one beneath him. “I’m not going to apologize for helping.”

“It’s not that I don’t want help.”

He doesn’t say anything, just reaches around you and gives your shoulder a squeeze. You lean into it, tired, _spent._ All the research you’ve been doing stares at you, now more real than it ever was. It feels weird. Like you’re not entitled to that sort of attention. Like by believing this, you’re indulging yourself rather than facing reality, and that he’s indulging it with you. It’s weird, and it’s _wrong_ , but there’s something about it that’s so, _so_ tempting. You pick the last book you were going through up and open it where the bookmark (newspaper strip) is.

“I don’t even know if I’m getting somewhere,” you admit.

“That’s fine,” he says, “It’s usually how it is. We’ll figure whatever it is out.”

Right. _We._

“You know that day we met? At the library?”

“What about it?”

“You—you showed me something,” he says, “I don’t know. Kindness?” he suggests. “That was the day Brady came back from his vacation. I went to the library because, I dunno, it’s a calm place. Not like the roof. It’s _warm_ , it’s safe, I guess, in a way.”

“Nerd.”

“I met you there.”

“Fair enough.”

“I was tired,” he says, “I’d just spent the whole night arguing, and I was sort of a dick to you—”

“That’s not true.”

“You know it is,” he says, “But that’s not the point. Because you still talked to me,” he says, “And you actually listened to me. You paid attention, I guess, and I needed that.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I owe you,” he says, “I’m saying you’re my friend. Hell, you’re probably the closest friend I have right now,” he adds, “And I can do this. I can help you figure this out,” he says, “So what do you say we give this a go?”

* * *

 

**2021**

“So you’re—you were _her._ ” You nod at Sam, his gaze still ice cold, like Fimbulwinter affects it, too. “Who else? And for how long?”

“Well,” you say, “First I was watching you, and then Dean. Though that wasn’t exactly an easy one.”

“I really don’t have time for your riddles right now.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a riddle. The second person I po—the second person I _became_ wasn’t an easy task because she wasn’t exactly human.” You pause. “Actually, she wasn’t human _at all._ ”

 

 


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOME DEAN! I have no idea how this is so long, but it is, so - I hope you enjoy it.  
>  **New tags:** Dean Winchester/Reader, fairies, insecurity, explicit language.

**_2003_ **

Bias doesn’t exist.

Existing implies the ability to _not_ exist. Saying humans exist means that at some point, they might have not existed, or that at some other point, they will cease to exist. Bias doesn’t exist is the same as saying _darkness_ doesn’t exist; darkness is merely the absence of light, a force _,_ and bias is merely the absence of equality, of objectivity. Being objective, being free of bias, goes against a person’s default settings. It’s a force that has to be summoned. It’s something a person has to consciously think about, to gather thousands of years of evolution and social awareness and _act_ without their bias. No one is blind to difference, but they can be made to act in spite of it. Objectivity—fairness—requires strength. Will.

And fairies are fucking lazy.

You should’ve seen this coming; you’ve grown up with the bastards. You’ve seen what they are up close. You’ve heard them preach equality and acceptance over, and over, and over like some sort of broken record, but when it comes down to it, they can’t _stand_ anyone who’s constructed differently. Humans are good for _quid pro quo_ and acting as puppets-slash-clowns-slash-stuff-that-require-years-of-therapy for _Oberon_ and his gang. Witches are good for connections and back-doors. Angels, believe it or not, tap into fairy magic and use Avalon every now and then, and they only get away with it because their father’s _letting_ the fairies exist peacefully within their realms without interruptions (also, he created cows. Source of all fresh cream. So they kind of owe him). Other creatures are good for trips to and from Purgatory, which _has_ proved useful a couple of times, you hear.

But demons? Demons aren’t good for anything.

To be _completely_ fair (which is ironic given the circumstances), you’re not a demon, not really. Nor are you a fairy. You’re a mixture—a hybrid. Or, as other fairies have called you over the years, a _failed experiment,_ an _abomination_ or, and this one’s your personal favorite, an _imp._ Yup. That’s right. The one type of fairy that doesn’t really exist. The running joke—the ugly one. The deformed one. The _powerless_ one. The useless one. The one they stick in a cage with the humans awaiting trial in front of the Tribunal for using fairy magic on another fairy—something that would go under _fair game_ were you a “full” fairy. The one they call to court _first_ , because _obviously_ banning one stupid, vindictive, fairy whose mother decided to call _Eitri_ of all names, from _one_ town in the _human_ realm is _far_ worse than the guy who forced a fairy into a murder spree. So much worse, actually, that they gathered the entire community in your area to witness the trial, while you stood, bound by magic and sheer anger, in a small cage facing the judges. You’re tempted to give them all the finger, even though you’re pretty sure most of them wouldn’t understand what that is anyway.

“Do you understand the charges brought against you today?”

“I do, your honor,” you tell the lead judge, Something McSomething Leprechaun. It’s easier to just go with the flow, see where this takes you, than to resist.

“And you admit to using a spell against the victim?”

 _Victim my ass._ “Yes, your honor.”

McSomething glances down at the audience behind you, silently watching the (predictable, anticlimactic) unfolding of events. “Alright then,” he says, “We hereby find you guilty.” _No shit._ “You’ll be receiving the maximum punishment—”

“The maximum _what_ now?” you blurt, “I _confessed._ ”

“You’ve been around humans for far too long, I’m afraid,” McSomething says, “Because a confession only eliminates any doubt you might be innocent. We have no reason to execute a _lesser_ punishment on you if we’re absolutely positive you did it.”

You’ve never killed anyone before. Not directly, anyway. This day, if it weren’t for the bindings, might’ve been the day, though.

“Your _wing privileges_ will be provoked effective immediately.”

So, what? Fucking Eitri shows up and threatens you, you defend yourself against him, and now you can’t teleport anymore? “For how long?!” All five judges raise their eyebrows at you, in one way or the other, so you add, “ _Your honor._ ”

The crowd goes even quieter, if that’s possible, and McSomething leans back in his seat, his fingers tapping over the wood in front of him. “For as long as the Tribunal deems fit.”

You hear whispers. A movement of words flowing in the crowd, but no one actually speaks up for you. As usual. “Your _honor_ ,” you say, “Isn’t it against the law not to share the specifics of the punishment with the defendant before the implementation of said punishment?”

“We have shared the specifics,” he said, his tone bored. Already done with this conversation. “If you want a more detailed description: you will not be able to teleport, not between realms, nor within a certain realm. You might be able to descend to hell,” he says, “If that’s your destination of choice.”

“Yeah!” someone cheers from the crowd behind you, “Go back where you came from, imp!”

“I’m as much _fairy_ as I am—” You pause. “As I am _otherwise,_ _”_ you say, “I have a right to my wings—you can’t take them away _forever—_ _”_

He’s about to speak, when the judge next to him stops him and whispers something in his ear. “If you’re to redeem yourself in the eyes of the community,” he says, “We might reconsider. Until then, this case is dismissed. As a show of mercy,” he says, “You will be allowed one last trip.”

* * *

 

For some reason, Avalon always feels like a dream.

Maybe it’s how long you’ve stayed in the human realm, but whenever you take a trip to and from the land of the fairies, it takes you a minute to weed out reality from dreams. Reality: you’ve just gone through what might as well be the world’s shortest trial. Dream: the part where you imagined Eitri’s face after all the punches you delivered in your mind.

Reality: fairy trial or not, you’re about an hour late for your job.

You drag your weight off the bed and onto the floor, letting the glide of your socks against the wood guide you all the way to the bathroom. You could call in sick. Hell, you own the damn place, you could invent a new type of sick day if you want, and as far as your employees know, you were out on vacation anyway, but you need this. You know you do. Soon enough, you’ll be feeling your power drain. Soon enough, you’ll go through whatever side effects that come with losing a whole sense, a whole _ability_ you were _born_ with, and for that, you need some normal. You need the bakery, you need _cream_ , and pie, and order, and _people._

You need to be human.

When you were a kid, and you used to read tales about some fairies that wandered into the human realm and never came back, you were confused. Why would anyone want to abandon Avalon for _less?_ Earth is less in so many different ways, and from what you’ve seen and heard, humans are even bigger dicks than fairies. But the thing is, as you found out, humans are different. Those who abandon a certain lifestyle don’t always do so to switch to something better; sometimes, they just want something different. _Anything_ different. For you, “being human” didn’t mean abandoning your powers all the time, it just meant that you could be someone _else_ for a while. Someone who fits in.

Someone who’s not a failed experiment. Someone who’s not weak. Someone who’s not an _imp._

You try not to think about the implications of your so-called punishment as you go through your morning routine, from the shower, passing through turning the key in the ignition twice before the car starts roaring, and all the way to a sloppy parking near the gate of your bakery. Before you push the door in, though, you slide your cellphone out of your pocket, just to see if anyone in there’s already left you a message you might want to hear before going in, but apparently, your days in another realm rendered the battery dead, so you go in mentally bracing yourself for the worst.

Except, no bracing could’ve prepared you for _this._

Standing in the middle of your store, with a proud badge on his chest, a communicator on his shoulder and a gun tucked into a holster is Sheriff Cooper. Which is not unusual, since he lives to fulfill the donut-loving-cop stereotype. What’s unusual, though, and damn right _invasive_ , is the tall, green-eyed man next to him, taking down notes while both of them talk to Katie, your store manager. There’s something about the way he smells—the way his soul smells—that pushes you a step back and twists a knot in your gut. Who the hell _is_ this person?

As if your question was broadcast, he glances up from his notebook, his face flashing into a grin, and walks over to you. “You’re the owner, aren’t you?” he asks, pointing at one of the pictures on the bulletin board next to the door.

“And you are…?”

“Dean,” he answers, “Dean Smith. I’m writing a paper for my, uh, criminology course. Would you mind answering some questions?”

The smell’s too _weird,_ too strong, that you have to sit down. You know you’ll be able to tune it out eventually, like you always do, but in all your years in this realm, you’ve never caught a soul so—so conflicting. It’s not often that you encounter grief so engraved in someone’s soul it actually rubs off on it, nor is it often that _that_ scent is paired with a spark—of life, of cheerfulness, of _hope_ , of positivity, something in that general direction. Not often, but not impossible either. What twists your stomach, though, what’s got you sitting on the pink chair next to the door, your purse on your lap, is this—this _stench_ of something powerful.

Something _inhuman._

But he _is_ human. That _Dean_ —his soul is definitely human, weird addition aside. He’s not possessed either; you’d be able to feel the energy of a demon, or the full-blown grace of an angel, wouldn’t you? He moves like a human, too—the flex of his fingers over the pen, the subconscious shift of his feet, the way his lips move—wait. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

He frowns. “Are you alright?” he asks, grabbing the blue chair from behind you and taking a seat in front of the door. “You seemed a bit out of it for a second there.”

“Yeah, uh, I’m fine,” you say, “You said you’re a student?”

His smile is polite, tight. “Yeah. So about the questions—do you know anything about the women who disappeared two weeks ago? They were last seen—”

“What school?”

“Sorry?” he asks, “Oh, you mean what school do I go to?”

“Bingo.”

“Uhm,” he says, “Pennbrook,” he answers, “Go penguins,” he adds with a chuckle, “Seriously, though, I’m tight on time here—the Sheriff wants to interview the whole neighborhood by _three_ and I’d just _love_ if I could get details about this from you—”

Liar, liar, pants surprisingly well-fitted compared to his leather jacket. “Sorry to disappoint, kid—”

“ _Kid?”_

“Oh, sorry, I just assumed, you know,” you say, standing up, dropping your purse behind you, “What with still being a college student in a fictional university and all,” you add, “But I’ve been out of town for the past couple of weeks. I don’t know anything about those women.”

His face stays well-composed. Surprisingly well-composed for someone who’s just been called out on a lie. Is he working _with_ the Sheriff? Cooper doesn’t seem the type, though. Cooper _isn’t_ the type, period. He tucks his notebook in his gigantic jacket. “Those women were last seen _here_ ,” he says, “On the last day you worked before your vacation,” he adds, and takes out his notebook again and scribbles something down, “So if you happen to think of anything,” he says, “If you happen to remember anything from that day, _say_ , why you left in such a hurry.” He tucks his hands in his pockets. “Or why your employees thought something happened to you until you walked in, give me a call.”

You raise your eyebrows at him.

“I can help.” He smiles again, and this time, it’s less tight more _compassionate_ , like he’s looking down at you, _pitying_ you for ‘whatever happened’. Who the fuck does he think he is? “Sheriff, are we done here?”

Cooper grins and throws a wave in your general direction. “Yeah, yeah!” he says, “Just let me pick up some breakfast before we go—do you want anything, son?”

He shakes his head a little but stops halfway. “Wait,” he says, “You guys got any fresh pie this morning by any chance?”

* * *

 

The first thing you can cross out about Dean is his last name— _Smith, really?_

Well, _maybe._ It’s not like he said his first name’s _John,_ or anything, but still. His name’s not Dean Smith. Maybe not even Dean, but you’ve assumed so many identities for yourself in the past that you know by now, that if you want to look normal, if you want to fit in, you use your real first name, or something close to it. So, Dean Not-Smith. Also not a college student at all; if he _was_ , and he wanted to throw you off his track, he could’ve just used any other legit school. Or said he studies abroad or something.

Dean Not-Smith, not a college student.

There’s the possibility that he’s some sort of an undercover agent of some sort, but why would an undercover agent accompany the local police? Also, wouldn’t an undercover agent have a better undercover identity? If he’s _not_ an agent, though, then why else would he be investigating those disappearances they were talking about? Could—

“We were really worried about you.”

You look up from your notes and flip them upside down. Katie slides a warm mug your way, over the counter, her big, brown eyes cautious. You take the cup and bury your nose in the smell—tea and fresh cream, just the way you like it. You might not have been exactly close with Katie, or any of your staff, really, but she still picked this habit of yours up. Heh. “You were?”

Katie looks at someone behind you and ushers them inside the kitchen before returning her attention back to you. “I’m not trying to be out of line here,” she says, “But we’ve worked with each other for over five years, and maybe we’re not exactly _BFFs_ ,” she says, “But what happened—you just left so suddenly,” she says, “And you only left a text message to say you’re on vacation…”

“I always text you when I’m about to leave town.”

“True,” she says, tucking a crimson strand of hair behind her ear, “But those _women—”_

“Yeah, tell me about that,” you say, “What _did_ happen to those women?”

“Well, they showed up around the time you got that friend—the blond guy—” Eitri. Fucking Eitri. “What’s-his-name,” she says, “Anyway, you might remember them? They were _really_ loud,” she says, “One of them had this electric blue hair? Looked kinda weird compared to the other two,” she reminds you, “They were sort of soccer-mom-ish, maybe,” she says, “They came in, ordered pretty much everything we had in stock that night?”

“ _Oh._ ”

“Yup, there you go.”

They _were_ loud, weren’t they? Too loud, you remember. So loud, it caught your attention while you were talking to Eitri around the back, where they were stuffing the _huge_ amount of baked goods into their car, but only for a second. You were more focused on getting him out of there, on making sure he wouldn’t destroy the life you’d built for yourself. Even now, knowing the spell is still in full effect, the thought of that night made your palms clench around the mug. He’s never going to come back here, not if the Tribunal doesn’t stop the effect of the banishing spell, which they didn’t say they would—wait.

If those women were there the moment you cast that spell, could it be possible that you affected them, too? It’s not like you had a lot of time to learn how the spell works, only that it banishes any creature from a given area for enough years to mean _forever_ to you. Oh _fuck._ Fuck, fuck, _fuck—_ where the hell did you send them? Eitri went back to Avalon, but they’re not fairies, so they wouldn’t end up _there_ —

Fuck, fuck—

“Nobody’s heard from them?” you ask, gulping down some of the tea, “Not their families, or—or their friends—did the Sheriff say if their phones are still active?”

“I actually asked him about that,” she says, “He said their phones have been off since the day they disappeared. They were supposed to show up at this party—it’s why they bought all the food—but they never did. Their car’s still parked, the food’s still in there, or it _was_ until the police seized everything as evidence…” she trails off, “That day, you didn’t even come back to hand out our checks after you left with that guy,” she says, “You just sent me a text at, like, midnight, saying you’re going on vacation for a while. The next day, we hear about the women.”

“Well, I’m fine,” you say, and your back itches at the words, like a silent protest, _not really._ “Nothing happened, I just lost track of time, I guess, and then it was time to leave…”

She nods. “Yeah, alright,” she says, “Just—we’re glad you’re fine,” she says, “We _are_.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll give you guys all the checks I owe you right away.” Maybe you should throw in another week there. And a thank you note for not bailing on you and still working in this place even though they were pretty sure something happened to the owner. “Just, uh, give me a minute—”

“Wow, I—” Katie stumbles backwards. “For the record, that’s not why we—that’s not why I—never mind,” she says, “We’re just glad you’re safe, is all.”

 _Right._ You know she means well, but you also know that’s not even _half_ true; you can’t tell when a person is lying, not any more than a human can anyway, but there’s no reason why she—why any of them—would actually give a shit about you beyond their pay checks. You’re not the friendly boss type, you’re not in any way involved in their lives apart from the few hours you spend with them in this place, monitoring, occasionally discussing new flavors, and living off an unlimited supply of fresh cream, and you’ve never been a “people” person, why would they _care_ , if not for the money?

She walks back into the kitchen and you hear some murmurs, but instead of listening to them, you just get your checkbook out of your purse, leave them all the paychecks by the register, like you always do, and head out. It’s a slow day, in the middle of the week, so it’s not like they’ll need extra hands on deck. Plus, you really have to get to the bottom of this whole disappearing women thing; you might not be the town’s leading philanthropist, but hurting innocent people where you _live?_

No. Just, no.

You donated your collection of books, the ones with all the spells, to the local library a couple of years ago; it was safer for the books that way, and your apartment looked much less obsessive-delusional-lady-ish without them scattered around. The library itself is pretty huge, too, so when you go check the books out, you usually have the entire second floor to yourself. But not this time; this time, sitting in the mythology and lore section, surrounded by some of _your_ books, is Not-Smith. He’s not really looking at them, either, more like laying them out and staring at _you_ , a smug, all-knowing grin on his face.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

“Oh cut the crap,” you pull a chair, as noisily as possible, just so you don’t punch a wall. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, “I’m just reading some books—did you _know_ those were all donated by the _same_ person?” he asks, “It even made the local news—tiny thank you note, but still, pretty amazing, huh? Let’s see—what is that? Witchcraft?”

 _Oh please_. Witches wish their magic’s anywhere near as powerful as fairy magic.

“Some of this stuff isn’t even in English—again, _amazing—_ ”

“What the hell do you want?” you ask, “I get it, you’re investigating the disappearances—”

“Actually, I’m just investigating you now.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a lot more interesting than those people who disappeared,” he states, “I mean, for one, you _came back_.”

“What?”

“You disappeared, too,” he says, “The same night they did.”

“I left on vacation,” you answer, glancing around to make sure no one else could hear—everyone seems to be out of earshot. Well, enough that no one’s shushing either of you anyway. “If you’d asked Katie, you’d know I do that pretty often.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” he says, “I get it, you’re your own boss, you can leave any time you want, but riddle me this: you disappear in a hurry after some mysterious guy shows up—” Katie talks a lot, doesn’t she? “Same night: three other women disappear, all from the same area,” he adds, “Your car’s left _unlocked_ in the parking lot where you live for two entire weeks, with your purse _inside_ ,” he slides in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, as comfortable as ever, “Your apartment’s a mess, but everything’s in place, no signs of packing—”

“How—”

“I’ve been here a few days,” he says, “I’ve seen things.”

“Did you just admit to breaking and entering?”

“I think by now you know I’m not exactly…” He scrunches his face. “Orthodox.”

 _What else are you?_ You want to ask, but of all the things you can’t mention, you can’t exactly say you can smell his fucking _soul._ Not when you don’t know who he is or what he’s doing here. Not when you don’t know how powerful he really is with that stench of his. “For fuck’s sake…”

“Here’s my theory,” he says, “You get into something you’re not exactly ready for—” He points to the books. “Maybe those women were in on it, too, maybe they weren’t. Someone shows up, maybe as a result of what you did, or what you know,” he says, “And he takes all four of you—I don’t know what happens there,” he admits, “But you end up coming back. You’re the only one who comes back.”

“Incredible,” you say, your voice blank, “Absolutely breathtaking. With the right cast and crew, this can be made into a blockbuster.”

He shrugs. “Okay. Maybe you don’t get yourself into anything,” he says, “Maybe it’s just all one big coincidence, hell, maybe that guy isn’t even involved at all,” he adds, “But something happened. And if your _interests_ are any indication,” he says, “It ain’t anything good.”

“You have to decide—am I the victim here, or the one behind the disappearances?” you ask, “The suspense is _killing me._ ”

“You’re skeptical.”

“No, I’m all for young writers trying to get their big idea out there,” you say, “You just have to _believe._ ”

“I get it,” he says, “I’m the stranger who pops outta nowhere,” he says, “I come by, give you a fake name, and a fake school, you gotta be at least a little suspicious.”

“No, I’m completely on board with discussing my life with a fraud. Really, I am.”

“What if I told you?” he asks, “Better yet, what if I _showed_ you?”

“Showed me what, exactly?”

“Everything,” he says, “Why I’m here, who I am, the whole deal.”

If it weren’t for the stench, you would’ve rolled your eyes and walked out. But there’s a missing piece here, there’s something wrong, there’s something _powerful_ in this equation that you can’t quite put your finger on. And it’s eating you alive. Maybe your semi-demonic genetic marker’s sparking your curiosity way above the normal, appropriate levels. Maybe it’s the desire to live in this brief chase that caught you right after the trial, to just exist in another story, another _mood_ , but you have to know, and if he’s handing out that information in exchange for your trust, then, “How do I know you won’t just lie to me?” you ask, “ _Again._ ”

He pushes the table away and stands with his head held up. “Trust me, you’ll _know._ ”

* * *

 

Here’s a summary of all your interactions with hunters throughout the years:

-         ?

It’s not like you didn’t know they existed—of course you did—but for years, you’ve managed to build a human life for yourself and isolate that life from your _extracurriculars._ Did you cause a mess at least once in every continent? Maybe. Did you manipulate people’s energies and watch them reach their extremes in your so-called _vacations?_ Perhaps. But you never stayed long enough to face any sort of consequences—hunter, or otherwise. Partly because of your wings but mostly because you’re not the show-off type; tricksters, demons, what-have-you—they have this tendency to display their work, announce their presence, but not you. You just do it for the thrill of it, the entertainment factor. Or maybe, as you wrote down in a diary one cream-drunken night, you do it to prove you’re not a weak, _failed experiment._

It’s probably just the thrill.

Bottom line is: you’ve never seen a hunter firsthand. Or maybe you did, but not while they’re on the job. Not out in the open road, away from prying eyes, in front of the trunk of their car. Not as they go through each and every weapon and explain what they are. Not as they throw you sideway glances, gauging your reaction, probably expecting you to run, or—“Why are you showing me this?”

Dean slams the trunk shut. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m—what?”

“This doesn’t freak you out?” he asks, “I tell you I hunt monsters for a living, and you just…”

“You’ve seen my books,” you say, “It’s not like I don’t know what’s out there.”

“Yeah, but…”

“But what?”

He sinks in his jacket, leaning back, his shoulders tense. “Are you a hunter?” he asks, “Is that what it is? Because if you are, let me tell you, your cover’s pretty great. I mean, that bakery’s _legit._ ”

That’s it.

That’s your ticket out of this, and into his mind. If he thinks you’re a hunter, that would explain your frequent ‘vacations’, why you’ve donated so many lore books to the library, why you disappeared the same day as the other women, why nobody knew who Eitri was when he showed up—it all falls right into place. You might not know much about hunters _firsthand,_ but, for one, there isn’t exactly a union or a manual, and he pretty much showed you the general ropes of this whole thing. Now all you have to do is grimace, keep your game face on, and say, “What if I am?”

He exhales—sharp, and long, and it drags his shoulders down with it. “Man, seriously?” he says, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I, uh, I wasn’t sure if I could trust you.”

“And now?”

“Now everything’s different,” you say, “You’ve shown me the light. You, sir, are the chosen one, the almighty hunter, the only person I can trust in this _whole world—_ ”

He rolls his eyes. “Jesus, I get it,” he says, “You’re not a team-worker.”

“Are _you?_ ”

“Fair enough,” he says, leaning on the trunk of the car. The wind blows past you, heavy and grainy and _cold._ “So, the case.”

Right, the case.

On one hand, you want to invite him to ‘work together’, get to know him, find out what’s so damn weird about his soul, but you’re not sure if you could find the women _and_ somehow keep him from finding your secret in the process; feeling insecure about sharing that part of your life with someone, anyone at all, is one thing, needing to preserve this secret because he might, and _will_ , kill you if he finds out, is a whole other level. And at this point, with no wings, in your hometown, you can’t take risks of that sort. Attractive hunter with a powerful soul or not.

“I think it would be better for both of us if you just let me handle this one.”

His eyes are as unreadable as always. “I can help,” he says, “Two’s always better than one.”

“Is that why you’re here alone?”

He hops to sit on the trunk. “I don’t exactly have a lot of options nowadays,” he says, “But you do. Whatever it is that’s going on, we can fight it off together.”

“Well, like you said,” you shrug, “I’m not a team-worker. So you can just—” You gesture towards the road. “Move on.”

“You sure?”

“Positive,” you say, “I’ll even pack you half a dozen pies for the road.”

He snickers. “That’s a lot of pie.”

“Just to make up for the case I took away from you,” you say, offering him a smile, “And maybe—” You rest your elbow dangerously close to his knee and look up at him. “—you’ll come back for more some other time.”

He holds back a grin.

“What?”

“No offence, but you’re weird.”

“I was actually going for the mysterious sexy vibe,” you say, unfazed.

“Really?” he asks, tilting his head, “That’s what that was?”

“Like you didn’t seriously consider it for a second there.”

“I consider a lot of things,” he says, sliding off the trunk, “But you’re right, maybe some other time,” he says, “So how do you wanna do this? Do I leave right now, or drop you off at your car first?”

* * *

 

Maybe you’re a failed experiment, but at least you’re a failed experiment who can disappear.

The police station is as quiet as ever; three women disappeared two weeks ago, and they have nothing else left to do but randomly interview pretty much everyone, yes, but it’s still a relatively small town, and one of the safer ones at that. There are a few officers scattered about, but none in the way between you and the bulletin board with the case details, thankfully. Okay, _good,_ so the next part would be—

“Hey, has anyone seen that Smith kid?”

You stop.

“No, I think he’s gone for the day,” another officer answers, “Poor kid’s been working this case as much as any of us this past week,” she says, “Do you think he knows any of the victims?”

“Nah,” someone _else_ answers—you know this one, Cooper. “Or at least, I hope not. They’re probably all dead anyway,” he says, “Just a matter of time before someone finds the bodies.”

No, they’re _not._ They’re not dead. You didn’t kill those women. You couldn’t have. Even if the spell did have any sort of side effects, there’s no way all three of them would be dead, right? Nope. No way. This was just an honest mistake—a case of wrong place and wrong time. If you killed them, you’d know, right? You’d feel it somehow. Something. Anything. Hell, they would’ve brought it up at the trial, wouldn’t they have? If those women were dead because of you, the Tribunal would know.

And the Tribunal would _care_ , right?

The Sheriff passes in front of you and you stumble backwards, swaying a mug off a desk and onto the floor. Cooper stares, baffled while you still maintain your transparency, before muttering an apology and going, you assume, to fetch something to clean the mess up with. Okay, _focus._ You’re here to get the information, nothing more, nothing less. Everything’s already laid out for you in handy little notes, like those procedural cop shows where everything’s conveniently laid out in front of everyone, even the seemingly confidential information. But nothing on there actually tells you anything, other than their names, and the fact that they’re all from this town, as it happens.

Another detail worth noting, you think, is that none of those women reached out to their families for two whole weeks; if they were banished to some other state, or some other continent, even, they’d still be able to call their loved ones, right? They’d still find a way to reach out, even if they can’t physically come back—good as it is, fairy magic doesn’t exactly cover texting, does it? Or mail. Or whatever form of communication they would’ve had access to.

So that leaves you with two options. Both equally as frightening.

One—they’re dead.

Two—you sent them so far away they don’t even have a way to communicate with this town whatsoever.

You walk out of there with a heavy weight in your gut. Dead or not, you hurt those people. Directly. You’ve never done that; you’ve promised yourself you’d never do that. Maybe your games went a little too far sometimes. Maybe if anyone with a streak of kindness in their hearts found out what you’ve been doing to various people’s lives for the past decade or so wouldn’t hesitate to kill or punish you. Maybe people are dicks just as much as both sides of your biological heritage, but you—you stick to your rules. And you don’t kill. Especially not while you’re fighting a personal battle. Or maybe you do kill. Maybe that’s the person you’ve become.

Fuck, if you could just _fly—_

Your way back to the library, now sans the hunter, is quiet. Quiet and three-dimensional, since you’re driving. It hasn’t even been a full day yet, and you already feel the itch where your wings used to be. Where your _full_ wings used to be anyway. Maybe you are a failed experiment. Maybe you _shouldn’t_ try to stick to all things fairy or human the way you do. Maybe you should descend into hell, see where you fit there. Nobody’s ever claimed you from ‘downstairs’, come to think of it. Nobody’s ever showed up and tried to take away what’s half-theirs.

You _are_ a failed experiment, aren’t you?

You’re not a fairy, you’ve never been a fairy. No part of you whatsoever is human, even considering the psychological, or philosophical aspects—you’re not a social being, aside from pop culture, you probably share nothing in common, in terms of childhood or otherwise, with anyone, and you’re just…weird, like that Dean said. A lot of people frown at the way you present yourself, or the way you talk back to people, or talk to people at all. And you’re not even a demon. You’re not cold-hearted enough to cause unwarranted pain, or arrange for destruction, and you can’t even begin to imagine what kind of creature would just possess someone else’s body against their will. You don’t fit into any of these categories, and you never will.

Someone, at some point, thought mating a demon with a fairy would produce a creature even more powerful than cambions, they were wrong, and now you have to live with it. You and those three innocent women.

You try to push those thoughts aside as you go through the lore books—where’s the spell, where’s the spell, yes—

_The affected subjects of this spell would be banished back to the place they were born, but will be free to roam any place as long as it’s not the place mentioned in the incantation, for fifty years. If the subjects were born in the same area they were banished from, the spell will not geographically affect them—_

Okay, so far so good.

— _but they will leave the physical realm to enter the ghost realm. Their bodies, meanwhile, will be sent to Avalon, where they will be kept, safe and sound, until the fifty years are over._

No— _fuck._

They have to spend fifty fucking years as ghosts? What if they fight that? What if they get a reaper to take their soul? What if a reaper _mistakes_ their souls for dead ones? Of all the fuck-ups you’ve fucked up so far, this has to take the cake. And now, of all times, when you don’t have your wings—

But you _can_ have them, can’t you?

They said it—“If you redeem yourself in the eyes of the community.” You know what that means, the one thing they’ve always asked of you, the one thing they’ve always nagged you for—deals. Human sacrifices to be sent to service Oberon himself, with no regard to their rights or willingness. You’ve always refused not for lack of benefits, because making deals would guarantee you more power from Avalon, but just on principal. Why _would_ you do anything for them? Especially when it involved hurting people with exactly zero entertainment value, just for more power to…hurt more people with exactly zero entertainment value? It made no sense.

It still doesn’t.

Even if you made a deal with the Tribunal, what would it be? Your wings for all first born sons in the state? Your wings for the three women, bodies and souls? No. You’d much rather let them live in ghost land, where they at least have each other and can see, and somewhat interact with their loved ones. Plus, they’d get to live their lives right where they left it, age-wise anyway, after the fifty years are done, right? You’ve basically given them fifty extra years on Earth. Of course, that doesn’t take into account their completely destroyed lives, how miserable their families must be, what the consequences of suddenly losing three women, two of them mothers, if the police bulletin board is correct, are on the people around them, and what three rogue ‘ghosts’ can do with enough anger and no dead bodies to be burned in order to control the damage.

But three rogue angry ghosts is better than three eternal slaves. On the big scale. Right?

Your wings hurt.

You could’ve been saving them right now. You could’ve flown all of them from the ghost realm, to Avalon, where their bodies are, and back to Earth. They could’ve been with their families tonight, and you could’ve left town and headed to some abandoned house in South Africa for a few nights, just to clear your head, get back on track. This whole thing could’ve been over before the weekend, but it won’t be. It won’t be and it makes you want to light something on _fire._

You can’t just stay here. You can’t stay here and witness yourself fail to do as much as stick to your promise to _yourself._ You have to get away. You have to focus on something else, _anything_ else. Something you’re curious about, something that’ll keep your mind busy until you figure this out or forget about it, forget about the itch on your back, or the lives you destroyed.

You pick your phone, and the note stuffed next to it in your pocket, and dial.

* * *

 

**_2004_ **

“Okay, first of all, _fuck you._ ”

The backseat of the Impala groans as Dean shifts his weight, throwing his head back. You tug on his arm, trying to keep it in place as you pull the thread through his skin one last time—“Where did you learn to speak like that?”

“Have you _met_ you?”

You roll your eyes. “Fair enough,” you say, “I’m _al_ most done _and_ there you go—good as new.” You cut the thread. “Now do you wanna tell me what you were doing back there?” you ask, “I told you I’d take care of this.”

He opens an eye to glare at you. “Am I supposed to apologize for wanting to make sure an _entire_ nest of vamps didn’t kill you on the spot? I’m not doing that.”

You rub your hands off on your jeans.

“Where the hell were you anyway?” he asks, “I came in there, there was one passed out on the floor, and the others were just panicking all over—”

“I was hiding.”

“ _Where?”_

 _Right there, actually. Right next to you. Of course, you couldn’t see me, so_ —“Right by the bed—next to the one who passed out? I think. I dunno, this whole thing happened so fast…”

He hums. “Yeah. Aha. Okay.”

You scoot next to him. Out of habit, he lifts his arm to wrap it around you, but the movement’s stiffer this time. One of the things you’ve come to learn about this Winchester in the past ten months: he doesn’t really like admitting pain. You put it down, wrap your arm around him instead. He leans into it, grumbling under his breath. “What?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, “Look, I—you know how I feel about you,” he says, “We’ve been on the road together for—God, what, a year? A little less?” he asks, “And it’s been great. You’re great at this,” he says, “But honestly? I don’t know how you do it.”

“We talked about this.”

“Yeah, well, sorry, it just keeps bringing itself up,” he sighs. Even deeper when you start playing with his hair, trying to get any weird goo out. “You suck at hand-to-hand combat.”

“Hey!”

“It’s true and you know it,” he says, “You know I don’t mean to be, well, _mean_ ,” he says, “But it just—you’re not like any other hunter I’ve worked with.”

“Well, I get the job done, don’t I?”

“That’s the thing, you _do_ ,” he says, “And I’m there, like, most of the time, I just don’t know _how_ you do it.”

“You hit your head, didn’t you?”

He scowls, but pulls you closer by the waist. “That’s irrelevant.”

Both of you stay silent for a while, just taking in the soft breeze on the open road. For some reason, whenever you needed some quiet time or some time to heal, Dean’s first choice was the road, instead of the motel you’re staying at. On one hand: fresh air and no noisy neighbors. On the other hand: no bathroom. Not the civilized kind anyway. You press a kiss to his forehead. “Maybe we should head back,” you say, “You could use some sleep, we could pick up a couple of burgers…”

He nods.

“Maybe you could even charge your phone,” you say, “Call your father back…”

“I hit my head,” he says, “But I didn’t hit my head _that_ hard.”

“He just wants to meet up,” you say, “I know you being in a heterosexual relationship with someone who doesn’t steer you away from the family business might be a shock to him but I think—I think he’ll find it in his heart to love his son no matter what.”

His body shakes with laughter. “It’s way more complicated than that.”

“Is it?”

He lifts his legs. Rests them on the front seat. “He’s the one who left, and right after Sammy took off, too—” He pauses. “And ever since I’ve found _you_ and just…”

“What?”

“I’m not ready to go back to that…dynamic,” he admits, “The sir-yes-sir’s and the reports and the check-up phone-calls…”

“You still listen to him—those coordinates he sends you—”

“That’s different,” he says, “Those are people who need my— _our_ help,” he says, “And it’s not like I hate him. He’s my _father_ , and I miss him, like hell, it’s just…”

“What?”

“It’s different with you. I like it with you.”

“Doesn’t have to be one or the other.”

“It was with you, wasn’t it?”

You perk your head up. “What?”

“When you left,” he explains, “You just handed the bakery to Katie, did all the paperwork basically through the phone,” he says, “And just took off.”

You sigh. “I—this isn’t the same. I didn’t leave the town behind to be with you.” _I left the town behind because of something I still haven’t figured out yet, about your soul. Something powerful’s in there, maybe something that came from your mother’s side, or something that has a claim over your soul somehow, that’s an option, too. Maybe there’s even something you’re not telling me, just like there are a lot of things I’m not telling you._

“I’m not ignoring my dad because of you, either,” he says, “Just, drop it, will you?”

“I’ll drop it if you agree to spend a couple of weeks in Mexico.”

“And meet a whole new type of monsters? No, thanks.”

“What makes you think we’ll even come across anything supernatural—”

“For the millionth time, have you _met_ us?”

* * *

 

You should’ve seen it.

The moment he uttered the words, “ _I found us a case”_ followed by, _“It’s a surprise”_ , you knew something was off. Or maybe not that—maybe it’s the way he seemed ridiculously excited about said case, and wouldn’t tell you any details about it except that it’s an easy one that you’ve tackled before—so ghost, vampire, or werewolf. You didn’t know what he meant by _surprise;_ you thought maybe he’d show you the world’s largest piñata or something on the way, if that even exists.

You sure as hell didn’t expect _this:_

Waking up, after several hours of sleeping in the backseat of the car, to the smell of freshly baked pie. And not _any_ freshly baked pie—freshly baked pie from _Katie’s._ Katie’s, formerly known as _your fucking bakery._ In your hometown. With _zero_ warning. “What—”

“Happy birthday!”

“ _What_ birthday?”

Dean shrugs, resting the pie on his lap. “I dunno,” he says, “You never told me when your birthday was, so I’m just rolling with today.” He opens the box. Sniffs so loud people on the street probably think he’s doing drugs. “Just as heavenly as I remember.”

You sit up, groaning. “Why are we here?” you ask, “And don’t give me some sentimental shit about wanting me to see my hometown, or I swear to—”

“Jesus, relax,” he says, “We’re here on a case. For real. I thought you’d be happier.”

Okay. _Okay._ A case you can handle. Quickly, you hope, and then you’ll be out of here. No need to have reminders, or anything of the sort nagging you, dragging you—“What sort of case?”

“Get this,” he says, diving into the crust of the pie with his fingers. “Sets of three women each disappear every 90 days for the past _seven months_ ,” he says, “Only reason we’re just hearing about it now is that the police has been keeping it a secret. Until one of the victim’s husband wrote about it on the internet and some local newspaper picked it up and started following leads.”

So much for no reminders.

“Theories?”

“Well, whatever it is,” he says, “It looks like the same thing that, uh, you said you dealt with right before you left,” he says, “Same MO, same everything. I’m running on the assumption you know what it is and how to kill it?”

No, you don’t. But you know where to start.

“Dean, maybe you should—” You clear your throat. “Maybe I should just take this one on my own.”

“What? _No_ ,” he says, “That’s not why I brought you here—”

“I know,” you say, “It’s—it’s just what I want, alright?”

He casts his eyes down at the pie. “Ten months,” he says, “Almost eleven now, and you still don’t trust me.”

“I _do_ trust you!”

“With anything except anything that’s even remotely personal to you,” he adds, “I won’t bitch about it,” he says, “I just don’t get why you have so little faith in me, is all.”

“Dean…”

“I can take care of you,” he says, “I can protect you, no questions asked.”

“You shouldn’t.”

You expect him to argue back, or crack a joke, or insist one more time. Instead he just shakes his head, dumps the pie on the seat, and walks out of the car. You follow him, not really sure what to say that won’t imply that you wanted him to stay when you didn’t want him to, not until you handle whatever this is anyway, but you find him on the phone, glancing at you, his voice loud enough for you to hear.

“Yeah. Yeah, Dad,” he says, “I’m, uh, free for, maybe—” He looks at you. Grimaces. “A couple of weeks? Yeah, yeah,” he says, “I can meet you there.”

“No, I’m alone.”

* * *

 

Somehow, everything reverts to its original form.

What do humans say? _From mud to mud?_ Something like that. You’ve started your trip in Avalon, and now, you’re back. Right where you started, at the Tribunal. Just not alone in the cage this time. No. This time, Eitri was the one in there, too, for defying fairy magic. For finding a loophole in a spell he’s supposed to honor. For returning the bodies of the women from Avalon to Earth. For almost exposing the system the fairies worked to get deals.

For exposing you. To Katie. To the ones who knew you.

Of course, they don’t exert maximum punishment on him, and of course, you don’t get out of it. All he gets is a slap on the wrist, some added quota to the amount of deals he has to make in a given time limit. You, on the other hand, get your wings back. Yup. That’s the whole reason behind this whole shit-storm of kidnappings—someone heard about your time with the hunter, about the fact that you became a hunter as well, and a price was set on your head.

A price Eitri was willing to risk getting punished for.

You’ve never heard of a fairy-turned-hunter before. Not that you remember. But, apparently, according to the same fucking McSomething Leprechaun, the punishment is more life-changing than just stripping your wings off:

You have to work for them. Until they deem you _redeemed._

“And if I run away again?”

“You think you can run away?” McSomething asks, “This isn’t some spell or trick you can just get out of. This is a serious offense. An _atrocity—a_ fairy turned into a hunter—”

“Oh _now_ I’m a fairy.”

He slams his palm on the wood in front of him. “You will respect the Tribunal,” he says, “You will respect the rules. You will respect the bindings you now have to live with,” he says, “You will respect your quota, and your duty, as a citizen of Avalon, towards our king, Oberon.”

“You think I give a shit?” you ask, “Banish me. Strip off every last power I have— _I don’t care._ ”

“You don’t have a _choice_ ,” he reminds you, “If you don’t meet your quota, you will have to die.”

“I’d _literally_ rather go to hell.”

“And you’re welcome to!” McSomething says, “I’m sure they’ll have a different kind of work for you there, though. Especially when they know about your relationship with a certain _Winchester.”_

You don’t know what he means, not really, but you know the Tribunal doesn’t fuck around with their threats, and you don’t like the way he mentions Dean’s name in there so casually, either. So what, that’s it? That’s what it came down to? A lifetime contract with the fucking fairies because of your time with Dean? A lifetime commitment to breaking every code, whether ones you’d set for yourself _before_ , or ones you’ve acquired during the past year? No. No, you may be an imp, you may be weak, and an overall disappointment, but you’re not going to do this. You’re not going to give in to this—you’ll go back, now that you have the wings they deemed necessary for the new job—you’ll go back and you’ll—

You’ll—

“What if I offer to stay?” you say, “In Avalon? I’ll work. I’ll contribute,” you say, “Just not—not that way.”

They consider. They consider, and consult, and finally, they come up with a, “That would be acceptable, as long as you abide to our rules.”

“Yes?”

“You’ll be sent to Oz,” he says, “There will be a battle there, of forces, that’s been long foreseen,” he says, “You can use your expertise as a _hunter_ to provide aid when we give you the cue.”

Oz. Of course. Fine. You can take Oz. “And?”

“And no trips to the human realm. Under any circumstances.”

“I just—I just need one more,” you admit, “Send anyone with me. I’ll only be a few minutes, then you can drag me back all you want, I promise.”

“Very well,” McSomething says, “Eitri?”

\--

_Dean. Hey._

_I don’t know how to explain this. I don’t even know where to start. So I’ll just say this: you have given me the best ten months of my life. Possibly the only ten months of any kind of life that’s acceptable enough to live. But I haven’t exactly been honest with you._

_You don’t know me. You know it, there’s no need to deny it. Maybe you know what I like, or how I talk, or how to make me feel like the most precious thing in the entire universe, but you don’t know_ me. _And it’s my fault, not yours. I like to think, sometimes, that we don’t know each other, but the truth is, I know you far better than you’ll ever know me. So I know this:_

_I know you might think of losing me as a loss overall, but it’s not. It’s really, really not. If you’ve only known where I come from, or what I’ve done, you wouldn’t spare me a moment. And that reflects less on your personality than it does on mine. I don’t deserve you—that much is clear._

_I guess what I’m trying to say is thank you. And I hope you don’t take this personally. I hope you still love people the way I know you loved me. I hope you’ll find someone who’s not weird. Or confusing. Or the countless other things you probably think I am._

_I’m not in trouble. I know this is what people who are in trouble say, but I’m not. Not really. Not the kind of trouble that needs rescuing. Definitely not the kind of trouble that should trouble you._

_I’m just in another place right now. Starting over. Starting fresh. There will be no more disappearances. There will be no more weirdness. Just peace. I’m pretty sure the world without me is a much calmer place anyway._

_Fuck, now this sounds like I’m about to die. I’m not. I swear. I just. Fuck. Thank you. For being amazing. For making me see something I never thought I’d see._

_Thank you for being there for me when I least deserved it._

_I hope this comes back to you, someday._

_And I love you, even if it’s not worth much._

_Have a great life, Dean._

_PS: you can have the apartment. Paperwork attached._

_PPS: I’m sorry._


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **New tags:** Adam/Reader, shape-shifters.

Statistically speaking, there is a large number of reasons why you could be in a random dorm room, in the middle of the night, tucking a chair against the door handle and making a dart for the bed. But at this point, with your back pressed against the cold window, a lamp rolling off on the floor, with your blood on it, your heart racing in your chest— _fix this, fix this, fix this—_ and  _him_ , panting, crouching on top of his bed in sweatpants and a disheveled undershirt, raising a large textbook into the air as if to threaten you— _this can be a lamp, too—_ you can’t think of one word.  _Any_ word. You just stare, wide-eyed and frozen.

“Who  _are you?_ _”_  he asks, “What are you doing in my room?”

“I’m—I am—uh—”  _Blink. Blinking is important. Blinking is human._ Blink. “I—”

“I don’t have all day.”

“I—I’m here to kidnap you? I—I think?”

He—Adam. Adam Milligan to be exact—pauses, shifting his weight on his legs, sinking into the mattress. He studies you for a second, not lowering the textbook yet, before he says, “You—what?” He frowns. “Is that some sort of a prank? Did Jim put you up to this?”

“Jim,” you say, “Your roommate Jim?”

“Who else?”

“Right. Yeah, no,” you say, and blood trickles from your injured lip into your mouth. It _does_ taste a little like metal. “I made sure Jim won’t be here tonight.” Pause. “Could you please put the textbook down?”

His eyes flicker to the thick possible weapon in his hand, his short blond hair falling forwards. “No?” He says it so incredulously it’s a little offensive. “Who the fuck are you? What do you want from me?”

“I’ll explain—”

“Oh _please_ do.”

“—just please put that down. Relax,” you say, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“So just kidnap me then?” He scrunches his face. “Yeah, no big deal,” he shrugs, “I don’t see why I’m reacting the way I am, really.”

“I’m not here to hurt you,” you repeat, emptying your pockets for emphasis. “See? No weapons.”

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing at the small bottle with the attached cotton in your right hand.

“Chloroform.”

“What the _fuck?_ _”_ He takes a step back. Another one and he’ll fall off the bed. “Is this real? This is serious?” he asks, “You’re serious? This is chloroform?”

You close your eyes. Take a deep breath. “I have no reason to lie to you,” you say, “You can see my plan didn’t go exactly as I wanted it to,” you explain, “There’s no reason to be deceitful at this point. I need you to understand.”

“Un—understand—understand _what?_ ” he snaps, “You’re—why—what the _fuck—_ _”_

You give him a moment and stick to silence, your heart not racing any less rapidly despite the relaxation of your _other_ muscles. You mean it—you need him to understand. You can see why it could be difficult, but it’s absolutely necessary at this point for him to get what you’re coming from, because if he doesn’t get it, if he doesn’t help you, it might prove disastrous on so many levels you don’t even want to think about right now. You just need this to work out. Just this. Just this one step. You can do this; you’ve done well with the rest of the plan so far, haven’t you? You’ve arranged for Jim, the roommate, to be away. You’ve managed your way past dorm security despite girls not being allowed in here after 9. You’ve arranged things with your professors so you’ll be able to take the semester off and still remain in the premed program after the summer. You’ve set up a plan for _after_ the part where you have to kidnap Adam Milligan, and it shouldn’t be too hard, not really. So what if you hit a little bump in the middle? He can be conscious and still want to leave with you.

Right?

He lowers his textbook, but still keeps his distance. He steps off the bed, eyes on you, moving backwards towards the general direction of the phone. “That won’t work.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re trying to call campus security,” you say, “Which won’t be possible because I’ve disconnected your line from the central downstairs. And you don’t have a cellphone. I checked.” He freezes for a moment, but continues to move. “Feel free to try, though.”

The invitation stops him short, and he gulps. So visible it hurts your own neck a little.

“I will give you whatever you want if you just—just leave. Please.”

“Why are you afraid of me?” you ask, “I’ve disclaimed my purpose—all I ask of you is just a moment to—to _listen_ to what I have to say—”

His eyes just roam your figure. Right. Of course. Of course that’s what it comes down to. Everyone’s afraid of the weird, big, Asian-looking girl. Everyone’s weary around her, because she looks nothing like the rest of the people in her closed circle. Everyone avoids her, because her mere presence, for some reason, threatens them. Everyone’s afraid to talk to her, because she’s just a loner, she’s just a _nerd_ , she’s just _big,_ and did you _hear_ she’s broken someone’s arm once? All lies meant to demean you, to put you in this position of weakness, of being undefined, or too defined, depending on how you look at it. All lies, especially that last one; you broke his arm _twice._ Once by accident, because you didn’t account for your strength compared to your colleague’s human muscles, and the other because he called you a ninja. It was a long time ago, though, and you, as long as your teenage hormones at the time, moved past that. But no one else did. Not even this stranger.

The stranger you’ve spent the past week doing research on, but still.

“You can leave,” you say, “You can call for help. You can report me to campus security, and I’m sure they’ll expel me, but I must insist that you listen to me,” you say, “It’s important. I don’t want to hurt you,” you say, “I do admit to trying to kidnap you, but I don’t mean to do it to hurt you.”

“I’m not leaving. You are.”

You shake your head. “I’m not leaving here without you,” you say, “Preferably out of the window. I’ve already installed a ladder—”

“No, you’re leaving, _now,_ _”_ he says, “Or else I’m calling security, and you’re right, they _will_ expel you.”

“I am _not_ ,” you say, “I came here for a specific purpose and I’m not leaving without fulfilling it,” you say, “So call for them for all I care.” Damn, that hurt just to _think_ about. “But I promise you, you will regret it if you don’t hear me out.”

He flinches.

“This is not a threat,” you say, “Oh God—this isn’t a threat, I swear—”

“Just go,” he says, “I don’t care about whatever sorority you’re hazing for anyway.”

You want to object to the mere implication that you would do something like this as part of whatever ritual that comes through applying to a sorority, or whatever it’s called, but it’s surprisingly accurate, except you’re not doing this for an honorary sister, you’re doing this for your actual sister, and she’s not hazing you, or testing you, she’s _relying_ on you. “I’m not leaving. Call them.”

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even remove the chair that blocks his way out of the door.

“Are you going to hear me out?”

He throws his textbook away. “Fine,” he says, “But roll the bottle over to me, and stay on your side of the room,” he says, “I’ll stay by the door, so if you even think about doing anything…”

You shake your head.

“Good,” he breathes, sliding down the door, knees up, running his hand through his hair. He’s pale, you notice, even in the dim light. “Sit.”

We’re talking in one syllables now. Alright. You do as he says, trying not to focus too much on the trickling blood and the nudge around your jaw— _heal this, fix this._ No. No. _No._ You’re better than this, you’re stronger than this—“First of all, I apologize,” you say, “I get this is not exactly a friendly approach—”

“Yeah no shit.”

“—but I do mean well, I promise you.”

He snickers. “Okay,” he says, “So. Which sorority is it?” he asks, “Not that I care, but out of curiosity…”

You tap on the floor next to you. “Not a sorority,” you say, “So don’t get your hopes up about that.”

He opens his mouth to say something but stops himself. “I wasn’t thinking about anything that’s even—”

“You’re a pretty terrible liar, if that’s any indicator.”

“Maybe,” he says, “But if Jim didn’t put you up to this,” he says, “And it’s not a hazing thing, then…”

 _Then this is real. This is real, and you_ _’re serious, and you’re really going to kidnap me._ “Yes.”

“But you’re not hurting me,” he says, “You didn’t hurt me when you came in, and you didn’t take anything, either…” He rubs his eyes. “This is so fucking weird. You’re, like, a student here, right?” he says, “You said they’d expel you, so.”

You nod.

“I don’t—I don’t…”

“It’s okay.”

“No,” he says, “I don’t get this. What do you want?”

You shrug. “Nothing bad,” you say, “It’s just—I needed—I need to get you out of here, and as far away as possible, as soon as possible.”

“What?”

“I realize how bizarre that must sound.”

“ _Bizarre_ doesn’t even cover it.”

“My sister told me it was urgent,” you explain, “She told me it’s crucial you leave this place and disappear as soon as possible—hence the kidnapping,” you say, “It’s just to make sure you don’t leave a trace behind.”

“This is a prank,” he mutters, “A long, elaborate prank. I just don’t get what I did to deserve this.”

“It is not a prank,” you say, “My sister—she doesn’t get involved unless there’s something really serious going on,” you say, “I don’t know the implications exactly, but for some reason, you are in, or you represent, some sort of danger by being here,” you explain, “But you’re not dangerous, because if you were, she wouldn’t let me do this.”

He stares at you funny. There’s no other way to explain it. It’s just _funny._ His eyes bulge a little, too.

“I’m not insane,” you say, “I’m not hallucinating in any way,” you say, “I can prove this whole thing, with emails and whatnot, if you just—” _Leave with me. Please._

“Okay,” he says, “I’ll kick myself in the morning for this, but okay, say I believe you,” he says, “Who’s your sister? Is she someone I know?” He pauses. “Wait a minute, is your sister Lauren?”

“Lauren who?”

“Never mind,” he says, “Who’s your sister, then?”

“You don’t know her,” you say, “She didn’t know you all that much, either, just your name and that you go here. I, however, have done some research.”

“Research?”

“It’s—understandably—creepy,” you admit, “But I’ve never—I would never—you have to understand, I’m only doing this, or I tried to do this, because I think it’s absolutely unavoidable.”

“Just tell it like it is.”

You can’t do that. But he doesn’t have to know what you don’t tell. “Okay,” you agree, “My sister—she’s a—she’s an investigator of sorts—” _The one responsible of keeping hunters away and other members of the non-human community in the area in check, but investigating_ is _part of her job description._ “—and about a week ago, she called me. She said someone in my school called Adam Milligan—” He shrinks at the mention of his full name. “—needs to disappear as soon as possible.”

“Does your sister help maintain the matrix or something?”

“I’m not sure how matrices have anything to do with this.”

“The Matrix?” he says, “The movie?”

“I haven’t seen it.”

“You should, it’s good,” he says, “Sequels sucked ass, but the first one’s great.”

You blink. “Uh, okay, I’ll take that into consideration.”

That elicits another sigh from him. “I’ll roll with this,” he says, “Why does your sister think I should disappear?”

“When she says that—”

“ _When?_ _”_ he interjects, “This has happened more than once?”

You frown. “ _When_ she says that,” you repeat, “It usually means that person is either causing trouble in the area—”

“Trouble in the area…”

“That’s probably not the case, though. You’re human, right?”

“…I’m sorry, what kind of question is that?”

You don’t want to do this; you don’t want to explain the ‘supernatural’ to someone who seems unsuspecting at best. Better yet, someone who goes to your school, someone who now knows how you look, someone who can _expose_ you if you expose yourself to him. You’ve built a life for yourself here—you’ve taken the life your family’s provided for you and dragged it into human territory. You’ve used resources, had to live with the fact that your family will always be monitoring your life, making sure you don’t fuck up or _get_ fucked up in the process of trying to explain _you._ Explain all shape-shifters like you, really. You’ve come all this way—you’ve worked for years to be able to study this, to be able to shape yourself up to become a doctor, to help people, to help _yourself_ and people of your kind. To explain how a genetic mutation can occur in a creature with no single DNA. To explain why being a shifter is an on/off switch instead of a mix—when a human mates with a shifter and has a child, that child is a shifter no matter _what_ —to explain your abilities, to explain why you had to live the life you’ve lived even though the person who fathered you was human. You have just worked _so hard_ and you’re _so close,_ you’re closer than ever, and you don’t want to jeopardize that.

But you might have to.

After all, you owe your sister. You owe her _so much_ , and after the last time she went over your head, you know she’s including you in this out of respect, out of love, no matter how weird it is for you to have to go through this plan of hers. You want to help her, no matter what it takes. You have to help her, no matter what it takes. If she steps into your circle—your community—again, with her _hunters_ and her _shifters_ and her _wolves_ , the risk of exposing you, as well as everyone else, to danger is much more than just telling this Adam guy monsters _might_ have been under his bed as a child after all. And even if it does put you at risk, you know that your family would be able to handle it, as much as it hurts to think about it. You know they’d eliminate any threats. You know they’d give in to the primal urge to _protect_ that comes with this weird genetic mutation. Or maybe it’s not something that comes with it; maybe your family’s just overbearing and territorial by nature of soul. As a result of years and years of being left in the dark, years of not being able to exercise their literal strength to—

Focus. Adam. Monsters. Okay.

“In the world around us,” you start, “There are—” You’re about to say _things_ , but you stop. You’re not a thing. None of them is a thing. “—different kinds of creatures…”

“Okay, National Geographic.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” you say, “I mean creatures as in stuff of _books_ , stuff of _tales_ —ghosts, vampires, werewolves—”

“I know.”

“You—I’m sorry, you’re human, right?”

“I _am_ ,” he says, “My mom, she, uh, she gave me this lecture once,” he says, “She showed me some stuff, too, I just—” He stops. “This has to do with _that?_ _”_

“If by this you mean my attempted kidnapping of you and that you mean the so-called supernatural then yes,” you say, “This has to do with that.”

“Fuck, are you serious?”

You just raise your arms.

“But—but why—how—I don’t—I don’t understand,” he says, “Those things exist—” You flinch. “—but that doesn’t mean—that has nothing to do with me.”

“That’s where my sister thinks you’re wrong,” you say, “She thinks something has very much a lot of things to do with you and this is why your stay here presents some sort of danger to the, uh…”

“The what?”

You want to say _community_ , but you know if someone calls superhuman or supernatural or whatever you are _things_ , you won’t have a lot of luck trying to convince him to join you, a member of the community of said things, with a great deal of trust. “My sister is a hunter.”

“Hunter?”

“She hunts those—those things. Yeah, she hunts those things, so she thinks you’re in danger,” you say, “Because something is looking for you.”

You have a feeling you should’ve used this earlier; you should’ve just said you’re a hunter yourself, too. But it’s probably too late for that, and if he knows anything about hunters, he’d know that someone who brought a specifically-cut piece of cotton they’d measured on their hand to ensure maximum effect with a never-used bottle of chloroform and no type of constraint to a kidnapping is either the most terrible hunter ever, or not a hunter at all. Luckily, unlike your preexisting condition, being a hunter doesn’t have to be hereditary. You can claim your sister’s a hunter without it being too unbelievable, you think.

He rubs his face. “Fuck me,” he breathes, “You’re one-hundred percent serious?” he asks, “Because I don’t care that you’re a girl, I _will_ probably do something stupid if this turns out to be a way to humiliate me, or something.”

“I am not trying to humiliate you,” you promise, “Nor am I trying to hurt you.”

“And your sister…”

“She’s positive about this.”

“And you want me to come with you,” he concludes, “Right? That’s where you’re going with this?” he asks, “You want me to come with you—to run from whatever your sister’s saying is after me for fuck-knows-why instead of you drugging me on the way out.”

You nod.

“And you don’t want any part of this, do you?” he asks, “You’re just stuck in as much as I am.”

“There is no need for sympathy, I—”

“Trust me, there’s no sympathy here,” he says, “I’m just trying to—to think…”

 _Fuck that._ You’re not doing this to be humiliated yourself; maybe you’re not doing it for him—you don’t know him—but you won’t take any more of this from him. Maybe he doesn’t know your sensitivity towards calling supernatural beings _things_ , but he knows you’re a person, and you just don’t deserve being treated the way he’s treating you. You haven’t done anything _terrible._ You haven’t shed your skin and taken his form as every cell in your body urges you to, in order to stop your bleeding, to heal your wounds. You didn’t intentionally scare him. You didn’t use your physical leverage to knock him out, even though you can. “I’m scared, too.”

“You’re _scared?_ _”_ he asks, “I’m the one who woke up in the middle of the night to some _stranger_ saying she wants to kidnap him because _monsters—_ monsters he’s sure exist—are coming for him.”

“That’s true, and I apologize if that disturbs you—I apologize for the _way_ it disturbs you,” you say, “But I don’t know what this is about either. And you don’t trust me, right?” you say, “Well, I don’t know if I can trust you either.” Being human isn’t exactly a trust-my-carrier card, if that thing even existed. “You have someone on your back. Someone supposedly powerful and someone who wants to hurt you, probably,” you say, “I should be scared of you. I’m taking you with me, somewhere I deem safe, and it’s not reassuring that someone else is watching you, too,” you say, “This puts me in danger as much as it does you.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “I don’t believe that you don’t know more than you’re telling me.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“But I guess I have to.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’ll let you lead the way,” he says, “I’m saying I hope you’re telling the truth, because we’re leaving, and I don’t want to wake up from the matrix in the morning,” he says, “Or worse, in a sorority house.”

—

“I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

His tone should make you take him seriously. It should. Especially with the way his eyes are fixated on the wall of the storage space your sister agreed to meet you in, all lined with all kinds of weapons—guns, swords, hex-bags, machetes, anything a hunter would ever need, really. It may not be true that your sister’s in any way a hunter herself, but her connections with hunters in the area, as well as years of learning self-defense and having to step in to “make the hard decisions”, as your parents put it, give her all she needs to pass for a hunter, especially to someone who’s probably never even seen hunters. Actually, he has, he just never knew he was a hunter, or else he would’ve mentioned it, or tried to call him—John Winchester, that is. So her cover, using a legit storage unit that’s been there for years, _should_ shake him up a little, “make him put things into perspective,” as she said over the phone. It’s necessary, if they’re going to be able to help him in any way. At least according to her. You know better than that—the weapons, the gloomy atmosphere, the unnerving analog clock unnecessarily stuck to the walls—they’re not your sister’s way of showing him the truth.

It’s your sister’s way of showing him who’s boss.

You cross your arm over your chest, glancing around you, rolling the keys on your forefinger. “There’s no need to worry,” you say, “Or, well, _there is_ , hence our being here,” you correct, “But, you know, you don’t need to worry about her. She’s harmless.”

Okay, so maybe that’s a lie, but it’s truthful enough to him anyway.

“Right,” he says, “Or so you keep saying.”

“You’re not still afraid of me, are you?”

His shoulders slump. “I dunno,” he says, “So far your story checks out—” On the way here, your sister forwarded a few emails, as well as an audio recording of someone specifically naming him and reciting his connection to John Winchester, and his biological connection to a Sam and Dean Winchester, something you didn’t know, but he apparently did. “—but I—to be honest, this all just feels sort of weird.”

“Well I don’t believe you’d encounter that sort of problem every day.”

“…yeah,” he says, “Hey, any chance you changed your mind about me borrowing your phone?”

You shake your head. “Sorry. Rules,” you say, “It’s better for you and for me that way.”

He drapes his hand over his face. “I just wanna make sure my mom’s alright.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My mom?” he says, “If someone’s after me because of John, wouldn’t they be after her, too?”

You didn’t think about that. Maybe? But if she was in any sort of danger, surely your sister would’ve mentioned it, right? Or, at least, she would’ve handled that herself—kept his mother somewhere safe. You don’t know a lot of details anyway. “Maybe we should just wait for my sister.”

Before he can say anything, you hear something clinking against the metal of the door. “Ask and you shall receive.”

“ _You_ _’re_ her sister?”

“Rose,” she says, raising her chin up to show you her tattoo, dark and proud, against her pale skin. So she’s going with short, blonde and cute, dressed in an over-dramatic representation of _hunter apparel:_ jeans, torn at the hem, an over-worked t-shirt, hair up in a bun and a protective, anti-possession sigil in (what you know must be fake) silver hanging from her neck. And _Rose._ You can’t say you’re surprised, really; she did always have a thing for statements and, hey, as long as you know it’s her—as long as you see the glow in her eyes, only caught by cameras and other shifters, and as long as you see the tattoo on her neck, pronouncing her to you, you know it’s her. You don’t have a tattoo, you don’t need one; you’ve always taken the same shape, the same DNA of a girl who died just before your birth, but _Rose_ —Rose is prouder than you are of her condition, of who she is. “We’re adopted.”

Adam’s unimpressed, his eyes still darting towards the weapons. “Aha.”

She mirrors your position, arms crossed. “So you came here out of your own free will.”

“Yeah; I’m a person, if you haven’t noticed,” he says, “If someone’s after me, I would actually want to consent to running away from said someone.”

She glances at you, her demeanor screaming _absolutely done._ “Cute little thing, isn’t he?”

You raise your shoulders, shooting her an apologetic look. “He does have a point.”

“He really doesn’t,” she says, turning back to him, “Listen, kid, where I come from, there’s no time for scrawny little civilians to balance out a decision that can affect _hundreds_ of people, do you get that?” He narrows his eyes at her. “Whatever’s after you is sparing no resources,” she explains, “The world doesn’t revolve around you; there are other people that would have had to suffer the consequences of your decision if you decided it wasn’t worth your time,” she adds, “You’re lucky they want you alive, really, or I would’ve just—”

“Rose.”

She stops, rolling her eyes. “You’re right, I wouldn’t have killed him, but still,” she says, “You get the idea.”

His cringe is visible, and contagious. “Can we just get to the point?” you ask, clearing your throat, “Who was on that recording?”

“Smith.”

“Smith _who?_ _”_ Adam asks.

“It’s just someone we know,” you say, which is only half true; Smith can be _anyone_ you know, anyone from your family’s connections, from _Rose_ ’s connections. But if she didn’t mention a name, or a _species,_ then a Smith is just that—a Smith. Someone who doesn’t matter. Someone she’s sure isn’t in any way a key player, but just a spectator, or better yet, an ally. “And Smith doesn’t know who’s after Adam?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet,” she says, “We know whoever it is is extremely powerful,” she says, “Or, at least, they have something huge to offer for you—”

“Offer _for me?_ _”_

“Yup,” she confirms, “There’s a price on your head, kid. That’s why you had to leave; it’s not about whoever’s after you and that’s it—we could’ve taken care of that, maybe—but it’s everyone else who wants the prize, too.”

Adam leans on the table stuck to the corner of the unit, now as pale as he was in his dorm room. “Do you know what kind?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“What kind of monsters is after me.”

Her lips part in a silent protest, and she turns to you, eyes wide. It’s obvious. It’s your sister, no matter what body she has right now, and it’s _obvious_ — _why is he saying_ _‘monsters’? Doesn’t he know what we are?_ You shake your head, subtle so he wouldn’t to notice, but not subtle enough that she’d miss it. You probably should’ve mentioned that when you said you’d told him she hunted for a living. She recomposes herself, but her shoulders are stiff. “Everyone who’s ever had beef with your old man is after you,” she says, “That way they get revenge _and_ whatever whoever’s after you is offering.”

He blinks. “And they’d have beef with John because…”

“Because John’s a hunter,” you answer. He shuts his eyes. “Your mom didn’t tell you?” _Even though she told you about monsters?_

“No,” he answers, “No, she didn’t.”

Rose claps her hands, “Well,” she says, “Time’s up, kids—you—” She points to you. “—you’re officially excused. Go back to campus.”

“Already took the semester off.”

She raises her eyebrows. “ _Okay_ ,” she says, “Then go find yourself a party, or camp in a library, or whatever,” she says, “You—” She points to Adam. “—I’m taking you with me. I have a place in mind—it’s a long shot, but we might be able to get into it. It’s supposed to be this sacred, super protected place. We can operate from there.”

Adam sinks into his shirt. Poor thing—making him face the truth is one thing, throwing him right into this hot, steaming pile of absolute shit is something else entirely. “What about my mom?”

“…what about your mom?” Rose asks.

“He’s concerned whoever’s after him will be after her, too,” you explain, “And, to be fair, it makes sense—they’re using John Winchester as fuel for all of this, and she _did_ have his child—” You gesture towards the 19-year-old ‘child’. “—she could be a target, too. Maybe not officially, but they might use her as leverage.”

“But your mom doesn’t live in the city, does she?” Rose asks.

Adam shakes his head. “No—”

“Then how is this relevant to anything I just said?” she asks, “Listen, I get it, she’s your mom, but she’s a grown woman—she had a kid with a hunter, for crying out loud,” she says, “And she’s out of my territory, really. She can take care of herself.”

“What the _fuck?_ ” he asks, “She’s probably in as much danger as I am—why protect me and not her?”

Rose sighs. “Because you’re _in my city_ ,” she says, as if she’s repeating something to a small child, “ _Monster_ activity in my city is my concern, monster activity outside of my city I don’t give two shits about,” she explains, “Is that simple enough for you?”

“I don’t—I don’t— _no_.” He straightens his back. “You know what, I appreciate you telling me all of this—” He’s not looking at Rose anymore. Just you. “But I have to go take care of my mom.”

“Kid, you don’t know the first thing about what you’re getting into,” Rose says, a perfect eyebrow shooting up, “Look at you. You’re freaked out by a couple of guns and a stake. You wouldn’t stand a chance against a _chihuahua._ _”_

 _“_ I’ll figure it out,” he says, “I’ll reach out to John—you say he’s a hunter, so—”

“John Winchester’s _dead_ ,” Rose says.

“You’re lying; if he was, my mom would’ve—”

“Your mom probably doesn’t know,” you say, letting your arms drop by your sides. “It’s true. I’m so sorry.”

He swallows, hard. “So what? I can handle it.”

“M’afraid I can’t let you do that,” Rose says. “You go ‘handle it’, who knows what kind of shit you’ll bring on yourself—on all of us.”

He runs his hand through his hair. “I’ll _leave_ ,” he says, “I won’t be anywhere near your precious city. I’ll go back home, I’ll drop out, even, or at least until this is somehow _over—_ _”_

“And, what?” she says, “You won’t call your roommate? You won’t come back to get your transcripts, or move your things, or make sure your student loan situation is settled?” she asks, “You don’t have any friends in here? Any friends they can trace back to you? Any connections they can hurt or abuse to get to you?”

“Rose, this is a little—”

“This isn’t a little _anything_ and God-help-me if you try to undermine me again, I’ll just—”

“Can we just talk outside?” you ask.

She rolls her eyes, but motions for Adam to stay put and follows you out. Once you’re out of his hearing range, she asks, “What the hell are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” you retort, “What are _you_ doing? He’s not the villain here,” you point out, “He’s the _victim_ , we’re here to help him.”

She looks down at her clothes. “I know I might’ve gone a bit overboard with the jeans,” she says, “But you don’t actually think I’m a hunter, do you? I don’t _care_ about him,” she says, “You shouldn’t either.”

“It’s not specific to him—”

“Oh it isn’t?” she asks, “Is that why he thinks we’re human? He does think that, doesn’t he?”

You take a deep breath. “This is new to me,” you say, “I’m not sure what should or shouldn’t be said and at the time, it seemed like a good decision,” you say, “You told me this is about protecting him.”

“No,” she says, her tone dull, “I said this _involves_ protecting him. I said kidnapping him is for his own good,” she says, “Which it is, by the way, thank you very much.”

“But I know you’re not evil.”

“First of all, the whole good and evil argument is so old I can’t even believe you’re using it,” she says, “And _second of all_ , yeah, I agree, I’m not evil,” she says, “If I were, I’d do a lot of things differently. Believe it or not, my job keeps the peace,” she says, “What I do—what our whole family does—allows _you_ and people like you to go about having the normal life you want. If it weren’t for me and my so-called evil you wouldn’t even be able to show your face in this city when everywhere is lined with cameras let alone attend school in it. So don’t go there,” she says, “Just _don_ _’t._ ”

You purse your lips.

“And let me remind you that you volunteered for this.” She pauses. “What, are you friends with him?”

“I’m not.”

“But you want to be,” she says, “That’s how you knew who I was talking about when I brought this to you, isn’t it?”

“I knew who he was because I know who _everyone_ is,” you say, “It’s a small school.”

“Wisconsin-Madison? _Sure_.”

“So what?” you say, “Just because I’m not on your side I’m automatically on his? And since when are you two on different sides anyway?”

“You’re not on his side,” she says, “You’re on _your_ side. That’s how it’s always been with you and your self-righteousness. You do what’s best for you, and that’s fine, really, I admire it; I’ve raised you well,” she says, “But it gets a bit on my nerves sometimes. Listen,” she says, “Adam is my problem, not yours,” she says, “I can promise you I won’t hurt him, but you already know I wouldn’t do something like that if I don’t have a strong reason to,” she says, “I’ll take him off your hands. I know someone who can make his college situation go away quietly, and maybe even get you back to school—finish your semester, don’t delay this,” she says, “Tomorrow, you’ll wake up and it will be over.”

“And his mom?”

“Oh _fuck me_ , why do you care?” she asks, “You wanna get involved in the _monster_ scene in Minnesota? Be my guest. I’m not touching anything there.”

Your first instinct is to refuse, but _why would you?_ You’re powerful. Maybe you don’t have a special suit for when you want to shed your skin like your sister does, and maybe you’re not exactly trained in combat, but you know enough to keep yourself and _him_ alive from whatever’s after him, that’s _if_ anyone finds you anyway; you might not be the best at executing the less-than-appropriate parts, but before you popped into his room, you had everything under control. You can do this, if you want. You can handle this situation, and you won’t have to worry about school while you’re at it, too. And you _want_ to help him. You may not know what it’s like to be in his shoes, but you can sympathize. You can offer him something, you think. You can be useful. “You know what? Maybe I do.”

Rose blinks. “You’re serious.”

“I am,” you say. Adam walks out of the unit at this point, no doubt curious what both of you were talking about. “You can take it off your list. You watch out for the city,” you say, “I watch out for him,” you add, “And his mom. In Minnesota.”

“I like this plan better,” Adam calls from the unit. Great. He walks closer, skin around his eyes dark, his body screaming exhaustion. “You’ll hear no complaining from me.”

Rose stares at both of you. “And college?”

“He’s in premed, too,” you say, “I’ll make sure he can get away with taking this semester off, too.”

“And if you bump into hunters in Minnesota?”

“Why would that be a problem?” Adam asks, “Aren’t they supposed to help us, too?”

She ignores him. “ _And if you bump into hunters in Minnesota?_ _”_

“I’ll call you,” you say, “You have to know someone there.”

“And if I don’t?” she asks, “If it doesn’t work out, or they don’t leave you alone, or—”

“We’ll be fine,” you say, “I might be a civilian, but I’m not completely unprepared.”

Her eyes soften, but she gives in. “You might be,” she says, “But that little vanilla bunny over there doesn’t,” she adds, “And you need weapons anyway. Real ones, not something you can get from a hospital.”

“I can—”

“No, I’ll help,” she says, “Just to show I’m not completely evil.”

—

Protectiveness isn’t the only primal instinct that comes with being a shifter.

Or maybe it is, and what you’ve been doing the past three months has just been a derivative of that. You’ve been in Minnesota, living in a motel near Adam’s mom’s house, and it’s been—it’s been a battle, to say the least. You want to think it’s some sort of an epic adventure, like those you read in books, but it’s just been _ugly_ , and bloody, and downright _pointless._ None of the creatures that showed up on Adam’s trail even knew who’s behind all of this, they just knew they had to report to their superiors, or a middleman. Sometimes the middleman was a hunter, other times a demon, or a whisper, or a _wolf_ —it just hasn’t been consistent. They show up, they try to kidnap Adam, but he’s with you, he’s been with you the entire time, and he’s close enough to his mom that using her as leverage is just as pointless as everything else they’ve been doing. Or maybe they wanted to use her, or hurt her, but you always got to them before they got to any of the Milligans. You killed. You watched yourself stick something that burned your own hand into another person’s heart and not flinch, not as long as you know this is justified, and it makes you _sick._ It brings back all the fears, all the reason you’re even trying to be a doctor in the first place but it’s just—it’s simple, really—

You just don’t care.

Not in an apathetic way. Not like your sister doesn’t care. You just don’t care that you killed people who posed a direct threat to you and your friend. You just don’t care that you stay up at night, researching, trying to find them before they find you, trying to keep Adam from even knowing they exist, not when he’s finally relaxed, not when he’s finally sleeping. Maybe you violated your code. Maybe your sister would have a _trip_ with how much you’ve strayed off the morals you’ve preached your whole life, but did you, really? Did you stray away? You’re not a monster. Monsters hurt innocent people. Monsters are chaotic, and random, and primal, and _ugly._

You’re just trying to protect your friend. You’re just trying to keep the peace.

Every now and then, Rose would call. She’d check up, see how things are going. There were _some_ disturbances in Wisconsin, but not enough to raise any red flags, not even to hunters in the area. She called this morning, actually. She called to ask if you’re coming back this semester to school—the semester whose registration starts in a few days—so she can arrange for the money from the family funds. Adam’s not going back, but he’s not officially dropping out, either, as far as you know, so you’re on the fence about this. You shouldn’t be. You should be packing and leaving, especially that nothing has happened for the past six weeks that indicates that there was anyone still after him; your mission is done. You’ve helped him. You’ve done your part, and now you should just go back to your life. The life you fought so hard for.

Right?

You’re not sure. You weren’t sure when Rose called and you’re not sure now, as you roam the hallways of the local hospital, either. You’ve been volunteering for a while, with Adam; it’s the same hospital Adam’s mom works as a nurse in (and it doesn’t hurt that it would look great on your med school application), but there isn’t a lot of work for you today. Mainly just get lab results, make sure the doctor’s paged, observe a patient and report if something specific happens, this sort of stuff. That’s why it’s not weird when the head nurse calls you just to ask, “Do you know where Nurse Milligan is?”

“No, isn’t she with Dr. Rickson today?”

He shakes his head. “She hasn’t shown up yet—she’s not answering any of her phones, either.”

“I’m sure she’s on her way,” you say, “I can ask Adam, too.”

“I tried to do that,” he says, “He left an hour ago, hasn’t heard from him, either. Hey, if he calls, will you let me know?” he asks, “I’m sure everything’s fine but…”

Adam left? And he didn’t tell you? “Yeah, yeah, I’ll—uh—let you know, I promise,” you say, shooting your best smile. “Can I get back to work? I’m waiting on a couple of results and they need them right away for the surgery…”

“Of course. Just keep me updated,” he says, “Oh and you can pick your volunteer forms from HR before you leave, I think they’ve been signed and everything,” he adds, “You’ve done some good work around here, you and Adam. I hope you’ll come back when you graduate, too.”

_If._

“I really enjoyed working here,” you say, “I’ll keep you updated on the Milligans,” you add as you take a step back.

“You do that.”

Once you’re out of sight, you get your phone out and call Adam on his new phone, the one he got for emergencies. Once. Twice. The third time, his phone gets disconnected. What the hell’s going on? Did something happen to his mom? You don’t have time to ask questions. One of the tricks Rose told you about is GPS—you installed one on Adam’s truck a while ago, and with a quick visit and a couple of polite smiles to the front desk, you log into your account and track the truck to the nearest mile—he’s at the motel. Or at least, his car is. Okay, that’s good, right? Maybe he’s just tired; he has been working extra shifts on his own lately. Maybe he just wanted to catch a couple of hours of sleep. But that doesn’t explain why Kate’s not at work when she should be. That doesn’t explain why she isn’t answering her phone, either. Where did all of this come from anyway? Nothing’s going on—no monster activity, at least. You would know, wouldn’t you?

Wouldn’t you?

You can’t take the suspense, and it’s your last official day anyway, so you just leave, get on your bike and head to the motel. It takes a while, but when you get there, it’s the same as you expected—Adam’s truck is parked, from where you stand, there’s no sign of breaking in. No police cars. No weird looks from the front desk. Everything’s normal. And as you make your way up, it is. Until you push Adam’s room’s door in, and you see it. Him. In a pile of papers, of photos, of you, of your sister with the same tattoo before she was _Rose._ When she was Maddie, and Natalia, and Jack, for a while. Photocopies of what you recognize as your amateurish research from high school, when you thought a couple of science books could give you the answer on why you were born a shifter. On why you don’t have a body that’s truly, 100%, yours, in every sense of the word. It hits you so hard, the feeling’s almost _comical._ He’s here, and he sees you. He’s here and he _knows._ He’s here, and he’s shaking.

He’s pale, just like he was when you found him that night in his dorm room. Maybe even worse.

But this time, he doesn’t jump to his feet. He doesn’t even look your way, but he knows it’s you. “Please tell me this is fake.”

It’s not in you to lie anymore, it just _isn_ _’t._ Has Adam been the only friend who’s not directly related to you that you’ve had in years? Maybe. Has he lived up to everything you thought he would be before you came here with him? Perhaps. But part of you is relieved; he _knows,_ he finally knows, and you don’t have to watch yourself around him anymore. He knows, and you can _tell him_ , about everything—everything you’ve done, everything you want to do, everything you had to beautify, to _normalize,_ in order to be with him. In order to live your fantasy of having someone that close, of having an adventure of some sort, of being this—this person. Not the giant girl. Not the person who has to consciously think of _not_ shedding their own skin and taking the shape of the first person in front of them. Not the baby of the family, the disappointment, the one who strayed, the one they have to accommodate to, the one who doesn’t really fit in and doesn’t fit _out_ either. He knows, and it will be okay. He’s seen you. He’s lived with you. He’s worked with you. He can get past this, he’ll see why you had to lie. He’ll understand what you’ve had to do.

“It’s not fake,” you say, “It’s true. I’m a shifter. My sister is, too,” you say, “But that’s it, I promise, everything else I’ve told you—”

“That’s _it?_ _”_ he asks, “That’s it? Are you hearing yourself right now?”

“I apologize that I had to lie, but you have to see—”

“You think this is about _lying?_ ” he asks, “I _trusted_ you! I let you in my _house_ , I let you—” He pauses. “I trusted you. Fuck, it’s my fault,” he says, “What the hell was I thinking, trusting you?”

“You can still trust me,” you argue, “I promise, you can still—I promise everything’s the same.”

“So what, are _you_ holding me? Are you the one who wants to collect the _so-called_ prize?” he asks, “Did you arrange that with Rose? Or whoever the fuck she is. You did, didn’t you?” he says, “All this time I was thinking you’re keeping me safe while you’re just…”

“I—I— _no!_ _”_ you yell, “No! How many times do I have to say this—I don’t want to hurt you! I never wanted to hurt you!” you say, “How can you not see that? After all that time, you still can’t see it, can you?”

“Right now, I can’t see anything,” he says. His tone’s disgusted, detached. “All I see is a monster dressed up as a girl I thought was my friend.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Okay,” you say, “Think of it that way—why would I protect you if I just wanted _the prize?_ ” you ask, “Wouldn’t that just defeat the purpose? I didn’t give you up.”

“Yeah, _yet_ ,” he says, “They want me alive, don’t they? Or maybe it’s you,” he says, “Maybe it’s you who wants me alive. Maybe it’s you who had a problem with John. Maybe you want to target my half-brothers, I _don_ _’t know_ ,” he says, “Maybe John Winchester’s still alive—who knows what was true and what wasn’t?”

“Everything, if you just—”

He cuts you off with a quick jump to his feet and a knife in his hand. A silver knife, glistening in the soft light, shaking despite his tight grip. “ _Leave_ ,” he says, “And don’t _ever_ come back here again. You’ll leave me alone. You’ll leave my mother alone.”

Your knees feel weak, almost as weak as you can feel your pulse is right now. You want to cry, to yell, to tell him how much it _hurts_ , how much it just fucking _aches_ to know what you know, to do what you did, and still not be able to defend yourself. Adam didn’t understand. Adam didn’t _care._ The moment you ceased to be what he wanted you to be in his head, he wouldn’t even give you the chance to speak, and it’s just so _familiar_ , so hurtful that you give in to it. You give him one last nod, taking a step back. You’re not needed, nor are you wanted here.

You call Rose from the parking lot. Registration fees are set aside.

—

**ADAM [18: 35: 03] : _Hey do u have some time ?? im back at uni, lets catch up  
_ ADAM [18: 54 :31] : _just want to say sorry  
_ ADAM [21: 03: 50] : _I miss u  
_ ADAM [00: 12: 04] : _come to joe_** **_’s the bar ill pay  
_ ** **ADAM [00: 30: 01] :** _pls??_

_—_

Your only excuse is that he said _please._

It’s what you tell yourself when you wait for Rose (yup, still Rose, even now) to go to sleep; you’ve been sharing an apartment with her lately, ever since the whole scene with Adam, and she’d _flip_ if she knew you were going to see him, especially when he didn’t even acknowledge your existence for a whole month after you came back from Minnesota, and _she_ was the one there to pick up the mess, like you’re some sort of heartbroken 12-year-old. But you were heartbroken. He did have that effect on you, and at the time, you didn’t even know what it was—why you were angry, and sad, and _pathetic,_ and frustrated all at the same time. The pain didn’t magically stop as soon as he disappeared from your life. Everything wasn’t magically okay because you were back on the track you set for yourself. It just sucked. For so long. And it will still suck. It will probably still suck after tonight. You remember his words— _maybe it_ _’s a prank. A way to humiliate me somehow._ A way to call you a monster again. A way to bring up all the hurt you caused him and project it back to you, _again._

But you can’t help but _hope._

Hope he really _is_ sorry, hope this was all just a big misunderstanding, like you hoped it would be. That after he’s had time to calm down, he’d acknowledge where he went wrong, and he’d make it right again. He’d want to be with you, as friends or something more than that, you don’t know, you just know you want him to be in your life again. You want him to share his life with you again. You want to feel like you’re a person with him again. So you go. You dress up, you sneak out, and you go. To Joe’s. It’s a suck-ish place, and it smells like someone pissed in a kegger sometimes, but it’s a place. It’s _somewhere._

He’s sitting there, sipping on the soda they serve everyone under 21 (suck-ish place, but they still care about not having their license revoked, you imagine), in a flannel shirt and a faded jacket. When he spots you, he jerks up, smiling. Smiling so wide and so hard it takes you back to your time in Minnesota. “Hey, stranger.”

You just smile in return, everything in you just urging you to observe. You don’t want to ruin this. But you also can’t stay silent for the entire thing. “Hey.”

He motions for the one waitress that works there to get you another soda, then switches his attention back to you. “Look, first of all,” he says, “I’m sorry—about everything,” he says, “What I said, it was inexcusable. I shouldn’t have let you leave like that.”

Wow that’s—that might be almost exactly what you wanted to hear this whole time. “It’s okay,” you say, “Really, I promise,” you can’t help the smile that creeps into your face, “I take it you had time to think about things?”

He shrugs. The waitress serves you your drink, but you’re not paying any attention to it. Or her. “I overreacted,” he says, “You—you’re the _best_ thing that happened to me,” he adds, “I found out, you know.”

“Found out?”

“About what you did,” he explains, “The wolves? And the _whisper—_ you did protect me,” he says, “A lot. I just didn’t see it.”

“I—it’s nothing, really,” you say, shrinking into your seat, your voice too confused to come out in one volume. “So, are you back here?” you ask, “All the way? With classes and everything?”

He shakes his head. “No,” he says, “I haven’t officially dropped out yet, but I think I might.”

“But you’ve always wanted to be a doctor.”

“And before that, superman, but that didn’t work out, did it?” he says, “Don’t worry about me, I’ll do fine. What about you, though?”

“What about me?”

“What are you doing here?” he asks, “You have the whole world—you have a whole world out there that other people don’t just get to see,” he adds, “And Rose, your sister, she knows a lot of other monsters—” Your flinch must’ve been noticeable, because he says, “I don’t mean to offend you. I mean it in a good way.”

“A good way?”

“Yeah,” he says, “What’s wrong with being different, really?” he asks, “I sure as hell don’t mind it.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying come with me,” he says, “This life—the school, the exams, it’s not for me,” he says, “I think I’m meant to be something more,” he says, “I’ll find my half-brothers, too—Sam and Dean?”

You tuck your hair behind your ear. Some part of you urges you to say _yes_ , to accept this, to forget about everything for now and just get your friend back—shifters have a longer lifespan than humans anyway because of the way they can heal themselves internally. You can go back and get into med-school any time. You can become the paranormal doctor after a year or two on the road or in Minnesota with Adam. Maybe you’ll even become the person your parents always wanted you to become—the _shifter_ they always wanted to see you become, like your sister. Maybe this could work out well for _everyone._ He’s here, isn’t he? He’s here, and he’s accepting, and it’s like he’s reading off a script directly from your _mind._ Maybe he still has a problem with calling you, and people like you, monsters by default, but he doesn’t mean it in a mean way, right? It’s okay, because he doesn’t mean to hurt you with it. You’re just weird to him. He needs time to get to know the _real_ you, and he wants you, so what’s stopping you from saying yes?

Why can’t you just _say yes?_

Is it Rose? Is it the effort she’s spent to get you to function like your normal self after the first time you’ve ever told someone who you really were? Is it your dream? Is it your professors? Is it the future you see for yourself? Is it the nights you spent imagining _what-if_ and programming yourself to reject those scenarios? Is it anything specific, really? Is it anything dramatic, anything defined?

But you just can’t get yourself to shape the words. It’s not this or that, it’s this _and_ that. It’s everything combined. You’re not ready to become so vulnerable again, so open. It’s not you. It’s not who you are. And it’s better to address that than to pretend everything’s fine and dandy. You’d rather be settled than vulnerable. You’d rather be feared than vulnerable. You’d rather be a _monster_ than vulnerable. It’s one thing and it’s a million things and you want to hug him and the space between your lips and his is very much pronounced but you _can_ _’t._ You can’t. Not again. Not even on different terms, you just _can_ _’t_ anymore.

“I’m sorry.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“I have to go.”

“Wait—”

“No,” you say, “Listen, I’m glad you showed up,” you say, “I’m glad you said this and—no hard feelings, alright? I just, I can’t leave my life behind again,” you say, “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t give you his signature smile. He doesn’t shake his head knowingly, or tell you not to apologize so much, like he used to. He just says, “Are you sure? We could have a lot of fun together, I can promise you that.”

“I am,” you say, “I’m sure. I’m sorry.”

He just shrugs, like it doesn’t mean too much if you stay or leave, which you suppose you’ve earned. You leave the soda, pick your purse up, and leave. Right back to the apartment. The road back’s silent, filled with something you can’t identify instead, but the apartment? The apartment might as well have been on fire, because every light in there was lit when you showed up, and Rose was all over the place. You knock hard on the door, trying to get her attention from the caller on the phone. She hangs up immediately. “Where the fuck were you?”

“I have a feeling you already know.” She just stares at you, hands on her hips. “I met Adam. He was just—”

“You met _Adam?_ _”_ she repeats, “Fuck. _Fuck._ ”

“What? What’s going on?”

“There are ghouls in Minnesota, and apparently there are ghouls here, now. We have to leave. Until we know the limit of this—until we get in touch with the hunters here right now,” she says, “We have to leave.”

“Okay, let me just call him—”

“No!” she snaps, “No, fuck, don’t you get it?”

“Get what?”

“Whoever you met isn’t Adam,” she says, “Adam’s _dead._ ”

 

 


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **New tags:** Castiel/Reader, Kali, Loki, Men of Letters.

**2021**

“I don’t get it.”

You cross your arms over your chest, your back leaning against the chilly wall. “What don’t you get?”

Before Sam can say anything, Dean pops out of the meeting room with a frown. “Everything alright out there?” he asks. You shrug, but it’s not your reaction he’s waiting for. “Sam?”

“Yeah, I—” He pauses, clenching his jaw. “Actually, Dean, do you have a minute?”

“Is this about—” Dean stops mid-sentence, mumbling something to someone behind him, and steps out, walking over to you. “Is this about Ragnarök?”

“No.”

“ _Yes,”_ you correct, “That’s what I’ve been saying—”

“ _No_ ,” Sam insists, “This is about you possessing people—”

“ _Whoa—”_

Sam raises a hand in Dean’s direction— _wait._ “You’re saying this is about _observing_ ,” he says, “About some orders from whoever’s behind this apocalypse, or whatever,” he says, “But all I’ve been hearing from you is stories about possessing—”

“ _Excuse me_ —”

“ _Being,”_ he corrects, “People we knew. People who have nothing to do with this.”

You roll your eyes. “Have you even been listening? The girl—the first one, from Stanford,” you say, “She tried to get you away from Brady, who was a stepping stone in the _first_ apocalypse,” you say, “Lost _that_ round.”

Sam shifts on his legs and crosses his arms over his chest. “What does that have to do with _this?”_

“Only _everything?”_ you say, “If the first apocalypse had gone through, Ragnarök wouldn’t even be an option.”

There could’ve been a plan B, but unlike the angels, and the demons, and all things biblical, _they_ aren’t the type to rely on more than one, strong route. To craft another plan is to admit the risks or failures of the first one, and in that case, it’s better to stick with the new one than bother with the first one at all. And in their plan to reassert their powers onto humans and other creatures, there was no room for the apocalypse. There was no room for ‘Paradise’.

“Seriously?” he asks, “You knew about the apocalypse when Azazel himself didn’t? And all you did was, what? Lecture me about Brady?”

“I _told you_ ,” you say, “I’m not—I was _her_ , I didn’t control what she did—”

“So she just _wanted_ to stop the apocalypse.”

Dean’s eyes dance between the two of you, but he doesn’t say a thing. You shake your head. “She didn’t _know_ ,” you say, “I’m just—think of me as a tape recorder,” you add, “That’s it. That’s all I do.”

He raises his eyebrows. “So what’s the point of you?”

“Excuse me?”

“What’s the point?” he asks, “If you don’t affect anything, then why have you there at all? Why not just, let things roll?”

What part of _plan_ didn’t he get? “Because that’s my _purpose_ ,” you say, “I was created to serve as an observer—”

“Yes, a force, a tape recorder, not a person, I get it,” he says, “But you had this information, didn’t you? You knew about this all along, so you must’ve been something more.”

“I knew because I _strayed._ ”

“You mean became your own person?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“See, that’s what I don’t get,” Sam says, “You either have a pre-informed purpose, or you don’t. You can’t just have a purpose and at the same time be completely passive. You just said you—she tried to get me away from Brady, who was a ‘stepping stone’ in the other apocalypse, right?”

Dean rolls his eyes and mutters something about how ridiculous everything always turns out to be. Sam ignores him. So do you. “Yeah?”

“Do you, or don’t you, control your hosts?”

“I don’t. I’ve already said that,” you say.

“But she knew.”

You grimace. “She _might_ have,” you say, “On some level. I can do that,” you say, “Feed them information, but they don’t really _know_ , it’s like—” You lick your lips. “Knowing how to swallow. You don’t really _know_ how to swallow, do you? If I ask you to tell me how you swallow, and you’ve never studied it before, you wouldn’t be able to tell me, right? But you’ll still be able to eat without a problem.” At both their confused faces, you continue. “That girl,” you say, “She was powerful—telekenetic, and a few other things.”

“Isn’t that the girl you had a crush on before you dated Jess?” Dean asks, “She was _telekenetic?_ Dude.”

“You slept with a fairy,” Sam says, “Don’t even go there.”

“I slept with a—” It takes him a moment. “You’re a fairy? And I slept with you?”

“No.”

“You _possessed_ a fairy, and I slept with you?”

“I observed through a half-fairy, half-demon,” you say, “And you slept with her,” you say, “Sam, look—”

“Half- _demon_?”

“O _kay_ ,” Sam says, “Okay. So the Stanford girl tried to keep Brady away, and the fairy…”

“The fairy’s just—she was…”

_A friend._

You never really figured that one out. The shape-shifter? Sure; she kept track of Adam, tried to keep him away from the angels’ reach so they couldn’t use him as Michael’s vessel (another battle lost) but the imp was more of a friend than a protector. If anything, Dean was the one who kept _her_ in check, kept her away from trouble. All she did was string along on cases when his family ditched him, but that’s it. Maybe there’s a bigger picture there, but whatever it is, you didn’t know it. You just knew that you had to use that particular woman to observe Dean, to know him better, to watch his soul, to become his friend, but other than that? Nothing. Not to your knowledge, anyway.

“We’re waiting,” Dean says, his tone more curious than his brother’s, more mellow.

But you can’t let them know that. Maybe it doesn’t matter on a bigger scale, but for now, they have to not only think you’re valuable, but also think you’re on their side, and their side alone, and there’s no better way to do that than to press on the one wound you know would never really heal in the Winchester gene. It may not be in you to lie. You may not have done this before, not yet anyway, but no matter how much you trust them, none of it matters if they don’t trust _you._ You’re probably immune to their attacks, but it’s not their mercy you’re after, it’s their help. Their friendship, maybe. Something that feels normal. Something that feels like everything you felt when you were their friend, in one way or the other, and right now, the only way to do that is to trim the truth. It’s not a complete lie, just a trimmed version of it. A derivative of it. “She kept Dean from dying on the job.”

Sam stiffens, a loud contrast to his soft eyes, as soon as you said the words. “Oh.”

“What?” Dean asks, “Who are we talking about here? When was that?”

“So she—you knew he’d die.”

No. “Yeah.”

“And when you poss—when you were her, she did, too.”

“You’re as quick as your brother, aren’t you?”

That elicits a “ _Hey!”_ from both of them, but only Sam adds an, “I’m just thinking out loud.”

“I can—well, I can explain better if you’ll let me tell you about the next one,” you say, “She’s a better example of how this all works.”

Sam exchanges a look you can’t really decipher with his brother then nods. “Alright,” he says, “But just so you know, this doesn’t change anything. Our deal stands.”

“What deal?”

“She tells us what she knows,” Sam answers Dean, “and then she leaves.”

Of course. Dean might look like the tougher one, but when it comes down to it, Sam’s always been persistent. Unshakable. Dean puts up pretenses, but Sam doesn’t fuck around. “I’m trying to put a stop to this—all of this,” you say, “And yeah, I might have some more stories to tell, but I’m not here to play you,” you say, “ _You_ found _me_ , and maybe it’s not fate, but it’s something. Here’s the deal: I’ll tell you what I did, I’ll tell you what I know, hell, I’ll even tell you what I’m planning to do, but you have to give me a chance.”

“Why?” Sam asks, “Why would I do that?”

“Because this war isn’t yours,” you say, “You’re not _vessels_ , you’re not _chosen—_ you’re not even in the same continent as most of the battles that happen these days,” you add, “But I can help you stop it—actually, _you_ can help _me_ put an end to it, once and for all.”

“You talk a big game,” Dean says.

“I learned from the best,” you say, “So do you wanna hear about the rest of them, or not?”

* * *

 

**2012**

Prayer is politics.

It doesn’t matter if it’s made out to a god, or a subordinate of said god, but at the end of the day, it all boils down to politics—who has more prayers, who hoards more power, who can use the faith behind that prayer, who can _destroy_ it. It’s why you rarely ever prayed. Praying means you owe someone, someone much more powerful than your human self, something. Something only they get to determine. It’s like signing a blank check. Why would you do that? Why would you willingly do something that could potentially ruin your whole life for something you could just as easily claim yourself? Humans never bothered to check, with the exception of people like your grandparents and their associates—Men of Letters, they called themselves—but power is given to those who claim it, not to those who ask for it. In most cases, a human soul can out-power anything that challenges it, using the right ingredients.

But at this moment, at this one moment, you had no option but to pray.

It’s one thing to stumble upon more than a few _empusae_ and kill them (the world has enough sirens and vampires as is, no one needs a cross-product of both, really), it’s another to have _Empusa_ , the demigoddess whom you were more than prepared to kill, redirect you to an actual, full-blown goddess who could bind you to her and trap you until she decides what to do with you. Human souls are strong. Maybe if you hadn’t been bound, in more than one way, you would’ve been able to find a way to defeat her, or at least escape from her, but you _were_ and she didn’t seem like the very patient or forgiving type.

Actually, you were pretty sure _Kali_ was the antonym of mercy in one language or another.

So you prayed. You closed your eyes, you pulled every thread of faith you have in you, and you prayed one, specific prayer. He’d shown up before. You weren’t sure how at the time, but he did, he listened to your prayer and he showed up. Loki’s not exactly a saint, but he owed you one from that time you distracted the hunters after him, and it was known that he and Kali go _way_ back. There were rumors that he’d died before the attempt at an apocalypse a few years ago, but there were also others who mentioned him being seen recently, and, _damn,_ you hoped it was the latter.

It took him a while—a few minutes—but you felt the ground shake then the door burst open. Your wrists strained against the rusty chains, but you couldn’t see him for a while, not until he walked into your view, full-on smirk and all. “I figured you had it in you,” he said, burying his hands in his leather jacket, “It’s always the quiet ones.”

Your flesh heated up all the way from your cheeks to your ears.

“What?” he asked, “Kitten got your tongue? Wait—she _didn’t,_ did she?”

“Get my tongue? No,” you said, “Just, well, _this.”_

He rolled his eyes. “You pissed her off, what did you expect?” he asked, “To be honest, kiddo, I’m surprised you’re even alive.”

“Can we cut the small talk and just get to the part where you get me out of here?”

“And get her on _my_ ass? No, thank you,” he said, “You’ll have to reclaim that favor some other time.”

You sighed. “Then why did you come?”

“You told me she was just keeping you for Empusa. Figured it was an easy enough job—pull a puppy face, get your binding spell thrown out, and get a few dozen _Ferrero Rocher_ s on the way back—on you, of course, but _you_ didn’t tell me the whole truth, did ya?”

“I _did,_ I—”

“No need to lie to me, amiga,” he said, “I know what you’ve been up to.”

* * *

 

Facts are open to question.

You’ve known this, from the years you’ve spent at school, in college, on the road—hunting, doing research, exploring worlds unknown to most—but right now, at this one moment, during this one day, the one thing that kept you together was _facts._ Fact: you’re thirty-five. You’ve been a hunter for seven years. You’ve _never_ lived in a suburban house. You’ve _never_ wanted to ditch the life. Gods are real. Monsters are real. Ghosts are real. You are not ill. You are not delusional. Time is real. Time is fluid. Time appears linear to you. Something’s wrong, something’s _very_ wrong. This is not your house. This is not your life. These are not your neighbors. It’s impossible to live in one single day for what you think could be months. It’s impossible to stay still in a point in time yet have other things move as if time existed. You didn’t make any of these things up. Something’s wrong.

This is not your life. This is not your life. This is not your life.

Those facts are what keep you going, what you have to list in your head whenever the universe you’re stuck in tries to convince you otherwise. One would think some things can’t be open to discussion, but a few months of every single element around you defying you and your beliefs could and were about to do a lot of damage. You listed those facts when you woke up in this house, filled with your pictures and pictures of people you’ve known over the years. You listed those facts whenever someone insisted the day was September 25th, no matter how much time you know _must’ve_ passed. You listed those facts when you couldn’t find a single trace of anything supernatural in this world, not even in fairy tales; everything was realistic, no spells worked, not even prayers took effect. You listed those facts when the clocks wouldn’t work, when only a stopwatch held witness to how much time was passing.

You listed those facts as soon as you saw _him._

At first glance, you didn’t know what his deal was, but you knew something was up; no one has stepped into your house throughout your stay. No one has emerged out of the blue and taken advantage of your couch the way he has. And no one has looked so out of place like he did. Like he does, still, even after you made this list in your head. You reach back to your gun and hold it up. “Who are you?”

He only glances at you before refocusing his attention on the book in hand, unamused.

“Hey, _you,_ I know you can hear me,” you say, “Who the fuck are you?”

“No one,” he says, sinking into his—ridiculous—trench coat. “You may continue whatever you were here to do.”

You may or may not have grown short-fused these past few weeks. You raise your gun a little up, and shot, hitting the vase just behind him. “Last chance, buddy.”

“Shoot me.”

You’ve met people here. Sane people. Interesting people. Creepy people. All sorts of people. Some of them might’ve been suicidal, who knows, but none of them very outspoken about it. None of them so—so—stiff, and _weird_ , and just as not-real as the rest of them. You take a step forward, watching his expression. The same, unamused expression. “Look, mister—”

“You want to know who I am, or you will shoot me,” he says, his voice heavy, “What’s the word? I don’t _feel_ like explaining who I am to anyone right now,” he adds, “You may shoot me, if you’re still inclined to.”

This is one of those times where you wish you’d just take a shot at his leg just to see how much he’ll like it, but you’re not, and, for the life of you, you don’t give a fuck who he is, just what he’s doing in what’s apparently and has recently been your house. “I’m not,” you say, “What—”

“This is your home,” he notes, still reading, “You’re in a lot of pictures here,” he explains, “But you haven’t been here in a few dozen hours. I’ve been here while you’ve been away. I hope that’s alright, though I am not sure I really care whether or not it is,” he says, “After all, this is merely a pocket universe and not the one I should be in right now. You seem to have a lot of tea in your kitchen. Would you like some?”

As a hunter, a researcher, and a would’ve-been Woman of Letters, not a lot of things rendered you speechless. Not until this person, whoever he is, opened his mouth anyway. “What did you just say?”

He finally puts his book down, a frown on his face. “You ask a lot of questions.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Who _is_ he? Where the hell did he come from? How come he’s the only one you’ve met with any sense of time in this September 25th universe? Why does he have an explanation? Why did he urge you to shoot him? Is it because of this pocket universe thing? Is that what this is, a pocket universe? Do bullets not affect ‘reality’ in a pocket universe?

What the flying fuck?

“Where did you come from?”

He springs to his feet, throwing the book back on the couch, and walks over to you. “Here’s the ‘thing’: I am an angel of the—” He pauses. “I’m an angel. I’ve found myself here without intending to. Now, I understand that may be confusing because angels do not ‘exist’ in this universe and therefore you have no cultural or religious reference to the word I’m using, except that you might know that in many languages, for some reason, it means _good._ You’re not human, you think you are, but you’re not, not really. You are merely a shell of a human, a representation, a hologram, flesh without soul and while I know you might mean well according to your own set of beliefs and morals, I do not intend to engage in any sort of communication that would be confusing to both you and me. Therefore, out of courtesy and because your home is where I first found myself in this particular universe, I will repeat my question: would you like some tea?”

Holy _shit._

Months— _months_ —you’ve looked through every single bit of data you could possibly get your hands on for even a glimpse of _anything_ supernatural and now, in your living room, is an actual _angel?_ If the Men of Letters were even remotely correct with the findings of their research, angels only actively operated in _one_ universe at a time. There was lore about them also supervising other universes, but only interfering in _one._ Yours. Your universe. Your reality. Your facts. If he’s telling the truth, which is pretty damn likely given the cultural background of this whole place, he might be your key out of here. The only thread you have to your reality. But right now, he just thinks you’re one of _them—_ the people in this universe. What did he say— _flesh without soul?_ That would explain a lot about the people here, why they don’t have spells, why the word ‘supernatural’ only yields results about phenomena people couldn’t explain in the past and can now be explained by science, nothing else. That would also give you a way to prove you’re human.

But first, you have to make sure he’s an angel.

You pull your gun back up again, and shoot him in the shoulder. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t flinch. He only inspects his trench coat with the tips of his fingers and grimaces, as if the hole in there’s just the worst thing in the world at the moment. “I really should learn how to sew.”

“Oh my God.”

He scrunches his nose. “No,” he says, “Just an angel. Castiel.”

You’ve never actually dealt with angels in person in the past, but you’ve read about them, extensively. Castiel, angel of Thursday, someone whose name popped up in hunter circles more than once, but for the life of you, you don’t remember _why._ Angels are supposed to be some degree of omnipotent, but they have limitations. You know they can’t see souls with their bare eyes, especially while in a vessel; they have to check for them. They have some sort of litmus test for souls. “I have a soul.”

He sighs. “Of course you do, of course you do,” he says, almost as if he’d practiced it before, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“No—no, check.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Check,” you repeat, “You’re an angel. Check for my soul.”

His bright blue eyes meet yours for a brief second. “I don’t think we’re ‘on the same page’ here.”

Why do half his sentences feel like they have air quotes around them? “Trust me, we’re ‘on the same page’,” you say, “I’m a hunter, from— _somewhere._ Somewhere with days. There was almost an apocalypse a few years ago where I come from, there were a lot of angels involved, and ever since, angels in vessels has been the norm around there, right?” you say, “I’m human. I have a soul. You can check.”

He frowns and shifts back on his heels. “That’s alright, I believe you,” he says, “If you’re—”

“No, _check._ ” You tuck your gun back in, grab his right hand with both of yours and pull him towards you. If they do this test in their vessels, they have to use their hands or something, right? “Look, I’ve been trying to get out of this hellhole for a long time, no success, and I know how it is working with people you don’t really trust. I need your help, so I need you to trust me, trust that I’m from the same universe as you. _Check._ ”

He tilts his head. “Are you sure?” he asks, “It will hurt.”

You scoff. “ _Please.” I just shot you._ “I’m a hunter. I can take it. Go ahead.”

Before you can draw another breath, he nods and yanks you by the shoulder, keeping you still in place with so much force it feels like you’re strapped to the ground with freakin’ _steel_ , but it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts. Not until he moves his other hand, the one you’d trapped with yours, and shoves it in your gut—t _hrough_ your gut—and everything _shreds_. You’re blind, you’re being torn _cell by cell_ , every part of you is _screaming_ , every part of you is _burning._ His hand doesn’t feel like a hand, just pain—pain, pain, pain, _pain_ until you lose the last bit of your senses. No touch. No smell. No hearing. Nothing. Just pure, unadulterated pain piercing through your very core, knocking any chance of thoughts out, rendering you absolutely powerless.

It lasts one second. It might as well have lasted a year.

Your knees don’t hold you up afterward, and he doesn’t catch you before you hit the ground on your back, either. He just stands there, staring at his own hands, almost as if he’s as shocked as you are, as startled. Slowly, carefully, you pull yourself up, expecting some sort of leftover soreness there, but there’s nothing. Just your heart beating against your ribs and your breath hitching in the back of your throat.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he says, “I tried to warn you…”

You shake your head, tracing your hand over your stomach through your clothes. Nothing. Nothing whatsoever. “Did I pass?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow, but he smiles, and it’s warm, for the first time in this godforsaken place, it feels genuine. Sincere. “Yes. But you already knew that,” he says, “How did you get here?”

“No idea. Just woke up a few months ago and found myself in this house, same as you.”

“Do you know Naomi?”

“…who?”

“An angel, in heaven. This universe is far beyond her powers, but I assumed she has a hand in it one way or the other.”

“No, I dunno,” you say, taking a deep breath and leaning on the couch, energy drained out of you all of a sudden, “I don’t know any angels.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, “None that might have something against you? Or any that might owe you a favor of some kind?”

“No—what do you mean?” you ask, “You think I might ask for something like this?”

“You wouldn’t be the first one,” he says, “People have always asked for universes of their own, somewhere where only they are ‘real’,” he explains, “Or somewhere they could have their dream life.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve never dreamed of being stuck in one goddamn day with a bunch of unimaginative assholes,” you grumble, “I don’t think an angel did this, anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve been here more than you have,” you say, “And I don’t mess with angels, not even in my spells. I always make sure to stay away from them. Demons, too. No offense. Just a precaution.”

“None taken,” he says, “A friend of mine calls angels ‘dicks’, and while I find the adjective distasteful, I don’t disagree.”

You snicker. “Yeah, well.”

He drops your gaze to focus on other items in the room for some reason. “So if you don’t think an angel is behind this,” he says, “What are your theories?”

“I’m not sure, every theory I’ve come up with I end up refuting some way or the other,” you say, “I mean, for a while I thought this was some spell gone wrong, and then I just couldn’t remember doing it,” you say, “But a spell that yields something this powerful would drain my soul in no time. I thought it could all be in my head, but I haven’t been able to ‘wake up’ any way I know, so that doesn’t work, either.”

“We’re not in your mind, or anyone’s mind for that matter,” he says, “I’d know. I’d sense it.”

“Yeah, you said we’re in a…pocket universe?”

“Yes, exactly,” he says, “One I’ve never been aware of, which makes me think it’s been recently created.”

“So, a god?”

“No, not God. That would leave a footprint. Angels would know.”

“No, I don’t mean God as in _God—a_ god. One of many.”

He shakes his head. “There’s only one god,” he says, “The rest are merely given the name because of the amount of power they have, and the fact that humans have worshiped them over the years merely because they are _present,_ and visible. It takes out the element of faith and replaces it with hard truth, something _God_ only exposes to a few chosen ones, like prophets, and people in the age of miracles,” he adds, “They are not gods, only surrogates. Powerful beings whose origin remains unknown to many.”

“Yeah, I see why you would think that—”

“I _know_ that,” he says, “It’s how it’s been since the dawn of time. I’ve seen it unfold.”

“Okay,” you say, “Let’s assume you’re right, and they don’t have the power to create or access this pocket universe we’re in,” you say, “Why didn’t God destroy them?”

“He can,” Castiel says, “He didn’t.”

“Mercy?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out for a moment. “I can’t claim knowledge of that,” he says, “But it’s possible.”

You readjust yourself over the arm of the couch. Every piece of you feels heavy, heavier than it’s ever felt while in this reality. “All I’m saying is, it’s possible it was one of them. A god, or a goddess, I mean.”

“Do you think a god or a goddess would have a _reason_ to create this universe and put you in it? I don’t think—”

“Yes.”

“You do?”

“Yes, um, before—the last thing I remember doing—” _God, why am I so sleepy all of a sudden?_ “The last thing—give me a second.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, just…tired?”

“Is that unusual?”

“In this universe, it is,” you say, “I haven’t been getting hungry, or sleepy, or anything really, like my body’s convinced it really is one really freakin’ long day,” you say, “Just—give me a second, I’ll be—” _Yawn._ “—just fine.”

Castiel’s smile is apologetic. Small. “This might be my fault,” he says, “What I did—it exhausts the human body.”

“Well, too bad, I can’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“The clock has barely moved in _months_ , I nap for a couple of hours, I might as well miss a few hundred years.”

“I don’t think it works like that.”

“Well, I don’t know how it works,” you say, “I tried to figure it out before—figure out some rate, or something, but nothing makes sense. I feel time passing, but my body doesn’t get tired—no one else seems to be sleeping around here, either,” you say, “I don’t know what the rules are.”

“I think it’s safe to sleep,” he says, walking over to you. He picks up the book he’d thrown earlier from the couch and puts it on the table. “Even if it’s a few hundred years, I’ll wait. We can figure out how to get back to our universe later.”

“…I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m an immortal being,” he says, “As demonstrated by your bullet in my shoulder,” he adds, “I’ll just wait here. I’ll watch over you while you sleep. Though I’ve been told that may not be comfortable for everyone. I’ll let you decide.”

“I can’t just let you wait a few hundred years for me,” you say, “Do you realize how fucking ridiculous you sound? I do.”

“It won’t be a few hundred years,” he reassures you, “You need your rest. And when we go back to our universe, we’ll be back at the same time we left. Probably.” He pauses. “I’m not in any kind of hurry.”

You throw him an incredulous look, but lay down anyway. He sits across from you, on the table, next to the book. You won’t sleep. You just want to rest. Maybe close your eyes a little. Focus. What were you saying earlier? Yes, the gods. “The last thing I remember doing is a hunt. I was on a hunt, but for some reason it keeps coming back in bits and pieces.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I remember,” you say, “I know I remember. I know it’s there. I just can’t seem to make out a time-line. Like it’s all jumbled.” You reach inside your pocket and pull out a notebook. “I’ve been writing notes, though,” you say, “I’m piecing it together, what happened that night.”

He takes the notebook from your hand, and goes over your bulletin points. “Empusae, trap, Kali, prayer?” he asks, “I’m not sure what any of that means.” _Went to hunt a few empusae. Got trapped by Kali. Prayed for assistance._ For Loki, to be exact. “You should rest.”

“I am resting.”

“Sleep.”

“I told you—”

“I can wake you up,” he promises, “I may not have some of my powers here,” he says, “But I can wake you up, if necessary. And when you wake up,” he says, “you might even remember more clearly.”

* * *

 

“You know what I’ve been up to?”

Loki raised his arms next to him. “You haven’t exactly been _discrete_ ,” he said, “Tell me, what part of _keep this to yourself_ didn’t you get?”

“The part where I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

He shook his head and stumbled towards the same door he’d come in through. “You know, I come here, I come out of hiding for your sorry ass,” he said, “The least I expect is some honesty.”

“You didn’t come here for me.”

“ _You_ called for me.”

“Yeah, I did,” you said, “But you came for Kali. You need her,” you said, “Ever since whatever the fuck happened with you two before the attempted biblical apocalypse, or whatever the hell that was, you’ve disappeared. Some think you’ve been dead,” you said, “I think you’ve been powerless. She used to boost you.”

“Oh, really?”

“How else would you explain half the things you do? You’re just a demigod, a trickster,” you said, “There’s at least half a dozen tricksters alive today, yet you’ve always been known to be the most powerful,” you said, “And you also happen to be the only one known to be associated with a goddess.”

“Hello, have you read a book in your life?” he asked, “Seen Wikipedia? You’re way off your track here, kiddo.”

“Let me correct: the only one known to _still_ be associated with a goddess in this day and age.”

“Still way off,” he said, “ _And_ I need to take you to a meeting sometime. Man, the gossip you’d get…” He ran his hand through his golden hair. “Listen, kid. I came here because I owe you one. And right now, I’m thinking maybe I don’t after all.”

You licked your lips and took a deep breath. Demigods and their inflated ego. “Listen, just get me out of the blood bind,” you said, “Make up some bullshit excuse, get back on Kali’s good graces, whatever you wanna do, I’m fine with it.”

He laughed, digging into his pocket and bringing out a bar of chocolate. “You know, I’m starting to see why Kali’s keeping you here,” he said, “And you think _I_ have an inflated ego.”

You huffed. “What do you want?” you asked, “Name it, it’s yours.”

He didn’t reply to you, just stared at the door, his eyes dancing with amusement. He chunked down half the bar and wiggled his eyebrows at whoever’s on the other side of the door. Fuck, _fuck, it’s her. It has to be Kali. Has she been listening this whole time? Is she in on this?_ You writhed against your chains. No, not today. Not like this. Not here. Loki turned to you one more time, and you mouthed “ _please”_ to which he snapped his fingers and the door slammed shut against some resistance, some growls. Not Kali. Maybe a creature of some sort. _Fuck._ “Tell me what you know. _Everything_ you know.”

“About _what?”_

That earned you one, long, exasperated sigh. “I am trying to be _on your side_ here, moron,” he said, “You’ve been getting intel from that little boy toy of yours—what’s-his-name…”

Oliver Price Jr., a Man of Letters, currently in Athens, working with the Greek chapter of the Men of Letters. Maybe they stopped recruiting family after the incident in America. Maybe you didn’t have any right to look at their research, to use their resources, but he did, and he kept you in the loop behind their backs in the process; his dad was trained by the American chapter, became a powerful psychic in the process. He didn’t. But that didn’t stop him from becoming one hell of a researcher. A scholar. A warrior. A lot of things. Your _boy toy_ wasn’t one of them. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that—” _asshole “_ —You know I get a lot of _intel_ from Junior.” _Including how to save your ungrateful ass the first time around._

“You’re really gonna make me spell it out for you, won’t ya?” You raised your eyebrows. He wiped his lips with his sleeve. “Fine. How’d you find the empusae?”

“Anonymous tip.”

“No, no, no, no,” he said, “Skip past the bullshit _then_ open your mouth. That’s how this works.”

“I don’t _know_ , alright?” you said, “I just knew where to look for them. Call it a hunch.”

You expected him to throw in more sarcasm, instead he straightened his posture, frowning. “You’re not lying.”

“What, you got a built-in lie detector now?”

“ _Shush_ ,” he said, “What else did you get a hunch about?”

 _Mom’s lasagna still sucks._ “Nothing.”

“ _Think._ ”

“ _N-o-t-h-i-n-g_ ,” you said, “It was one hell of a lucky guess, I _swear._ Now, will you _please_ find a way to get me out of here—”

“ _Wait_ ,” he said, “Right before you had this hunch of yours, did you black out? A couple of hours, a day, a week, anything?”

“N—wait, _yeah,_ how did you know?”

Loki’s lips fell open with a soft gas. “Sweet mother—” He paused. “It’s _you. That’s_ how your prayer got through.”

“Excuse me?”

“Who is it? That kid, Junior? No way,” he said, “He’s too vanilla for any of this. Who, then? Who does she know?” he asked, “Who can she _watch?_ Oh boy, this is good. This is so good. I know it’s not _me_ , but _who?_ ”

“…what?”

“I said _shush,_ it’s not you I’m talking to.”

“You’re looking at me and—”

“ _Shush_.” You complied, confused. “I know you can hear me,” he said, “I know you can distinguish the difference. That’s what they’ve always been afraid of,” he said, “It’s why you don’t watch your targets directly.”

What in the deepest pits of hell was he talking about?

“You having a good time in there?” he asked, “Human bodies are so…flexible, aren’t they? So much better than anything else you can whip up. Keep that in mind.” He raised his fingers like he’s about to snap them. “I gotta talk to somebody. Be right back.”

“Wait—”

* * *

 

You wake up with a start.

The first thing you check is your stop-watch—it’s only been 3 hours. Three real hours, not months or years like you’d expected. It’s still bright outside, warmth seeping through the window and onto the couch, only stopping to drop a shadow next to the cup of what you assume is tea on the table. You smile to yourself; it’s good to have company after months on your own, especially one with _such_ good manners. You hear feet shuffle behind you and you peek behind the couch. Castiel’s standing there, browsing through the books you haven’t even bothered to check throughout your stay here, his tousled dark hair blocking the view of his eyes. “I thought you said it might be a few hundred years,” he says, “I was just getting comfortable.”

You rest your chin on the edge of the couch. “Yeah?” you ask, “What are you reading?”

“Nothing,” he answers, “Everything. It’s quite interesting how language is affected by cultural norms and beliefs,” he says, “The lack of anything not strictly both self-aware _and_ human in this universe reflects in the use of metaphors and similes in text—more so in conversational languages, too.”

“Ah, I get it,” you say, curling onto the couch, “We’re the pets, the grand experiment.”

He laughs. “In a sense,” he says, “I don’t consider humans inferior, though a lot of angels do.”

“Special snowflake.”

“Less that more fallen angel,” he says, “Although I’m not sure where I stand on that from a technical point of view. I’ve fallen, but then I got back to heaven, and then I—” He stops. “Humans are not inferior. If you ask me, it’s quite the opposite.”

“Oh?”

“Oh,” he says with a grin, “I’ve made you some tea.”

“I can see that,” you say, turning around to grip it between your fingers. “So you _weren’t_ expecting me to pull a Seven Sleepers on you.”

That earns you a laugh. “Well,” he said, “I thought I’d make a new one every fifteen minutes. I’m glad you _didn’t_ pull a Seven Sleepers on me, that would’ve wasted a lot of perfectly good tea.”

You wiggle your eyebrows as you gulp some of the tea he made. Maybe you never got hungry in this universe, but there’s always place for _this._

“Did you remember?”

“How’d you figure?” you ask, “Did I talk in my sleep?”

“No,” he answers, “Nothing comprehensible anyway, but I—uh—helped you. I hope that wasn’t ‘creepy’, I never know what qualifies for that,” he says, “I didn’t read your mind, or see your dreams, I just helped surface some of the memories. Bring them to the top.”

“You can do that?”

“I can do a lot of things,” he says, “Did you remember?”

“Some,” you say, “Nothing useful, though. Sorry.”

He hums, turning back to the bookshelf. “It was what you’d call a ‘long shot’ anyway,” he says, “May I ask you a personal question?”

“It’s a free world.” He frowns at you. “Uh, I mean, yeah, sure, go ahead, Castiel.”

“I would rather—” He stops himself again. “My friends call me Cas. It’s a shortened version of my name, which makes it understandably easier to—”

You raise your palm. “Okay, okay,” you say, “I’ll call you Cas.”

“You don’t have to, it was merely a suggestion,” he says, “I don’t deserve it, anyway.” The second part is more of a mumble.

You wave your hand dismissively. “It’s fine. It’s easier. Go ahead, _Cas._ Ask the question.”

He nods. “Who’s _Oliver Price Junior?”_

You put down the tea on the table. “Did I mention him in my sleep?”

He runs his finger over the books. “All of them have their name on it.”

“Junior’s?”

“Yes,” he says, “I assumed it was someone you know, since those are in your house. Is he here? Is he also human? In the same way you are, I mean.”

“Junior? No, he’s not here, not to my knowledge,” you answer, “That’s weird.”

“If you say so.”

You jump over the couch to stand next to him. “Anything else connecting those books?” you ask, “Other than Junior’s name. Do they have a symbol, or—”

“They are all _property of the Mariah-Price library and not for sale_ ,” Cas says, “Is that important?”

“Is that _important?_ It’s the first lead I’ve had in _months.” The only connection to my universe that I’m aware of, other than you._ “Come on. I’ll look up where that library is, and we’ll take a look there.”

“Take a look at what?”

“Something, anything,” you say, “What, you never seen a hunter in action before? We live on scraps like that. Come on.”

* * *

 

Fact: this Cas angel-person is perfect.

Not in a middle-schooler crush sort of way, though maybe that, too, but in the hunter side-kick sort of way. He’s a lot of help, almost like he’s been with a hunter before, on the road, looking for something. The Mariah-Price library turned out to be a few hours away by car (the pocket universe doesn’t come with unlimited pocket money for flights) and despite the cautiousness that came with him not being human, and the fact that you couldn’t really, 100% confirm that he is who he says he is, he turned out to be a decent co-pilot. Not only polite, but funny, and _good,_ and maybe you’ve just been thirsty for actual, real contact but he’s been friendly to the point that your trip to the library, to find out if it’s a lead to what happened to both of you, doesn’t seem so urgent anymore. It could wait a few dozen hours, right?

Fuck. _Focus._

You can’t get distracted _now_ , not after all this time trying to get a hint of a lead and finally getting one—one that’s been right under your nose for months, too, you just never bothered to check it, like the distracted mess you are. You can’t just abandon all logic and stare at the— _freakin’—_ angel in your presence, sitting right across from you in a somewhat crowded, yet all-the-same quiet library, browsing through books from the same section from which all the books on your bookshelves were borrowed. You can’t just stare at his peaceful face and try to determine if there actually is some hidden meaning behind the way his lips curl up on one side and not the other. You can’t take a break between every ten pages or so just to dwell over the fact that he’s just so perfect in a way that isn’t, and shouldn’t be, humanly possible even when you knew nothing about him but his species, his name and the fact that he has human friends he doesn’t want to talk about.

You can’t. You _won’t._ Even if it doesn’t distract you, which you know it will, what would he think if he could read your mind? Would he still want to be around you, let alone help you, if he knew what you thought of him? Of course not. Who wants that sort of unsolicited attention? Not angels, that’s who.

“Nothing in those books seems to be connected to anything,” Cas notes, “All of them are strictly political biographies, memoirs,” he says, “Nothing in here seems to point in any relevant direction.”

“You sure?” you grumble, “You just skimmed through all of them.”

“I went through every line, every word,” he insists.

“Right. Angel,” you say, “Well, I’ll go through the rest of the ones on the shelf—”

“Those also belong to the same authors, I doubt—”

“You _doubt_ , you don’t _know_ ,” you say, averting your gaze from his, standing up, “You don’t know everything.”

“I—” He pauses, “No. No, I don’t. May I ask you another question?”

“God, will you stop with the questions already?” you whisper, careful not to draw any attention from the bystanders, “Let me look.”

“I apologize.”

You don’t say anything in return. He’s right, though; the rest of the books are all by the same authors as the ones you’ve already gone through, some sequels, some notes or other versions of the same book. Nothing really catches your eye, until you spot a small figurine in a familiar color standing in between the books. It’s tiny, about the size of your hand, but the blood-red shirt, the gray pants and the glasses on the figurine’s face leaves nothing for doubt—it’s Junior. It’s a freakin’ figurine of _Junior._ What is that supposed to mean? First the books lead you here, then you find this on the same shelves where the books supposedly—

“Did you find something?”

Fucking _prick._ “Yeah,” you answer, throwing the figurine to Castiel. “A _boy toy._ ”

He inspects the toy between his fingers before meeting your eyes again. “I don’t understand that reference.”

 _Of course you don’t._ You tear down the rest of the contents of the shelves, looking for another clue—something, _anything._ None of the bystanders interrupt, like they’re all part of another realm, which you suppose could be the case in this crazy nut-house of a universe or a pocket universe or whatever the fuck was going on. Nothing, not one single thing other than that. It’s Loki, then. It has to be. Maybe you’re drawing crazy connections out of the blue, but you know it in your gut—it’s him. It’s like that time with the empusae, you _know,_ and it feels as certain as the facts you keep repeating to yourself.

But Loki, trickster or not, is just a demigod. Yes, he can create illusions—illusions that seem like real-life, but this whole, detailed universe? That’s out of his league. Way out. Did Kali help him? Can Kali even do that? Yes, she’s powerful, and a full-blown goddess, but the ability to create something like _this_ —that’s not something a lot of gods have in common. But it doesn’t matter, does it? The _how_ isn’t really the most important factor here, it’s the _why_. The why can get you out, the how will just draw out more research hours you know will get you nowhere. Why would Loki want you trapped here? If he wanted you dead, he could’ve killed you, so could Kali, or anyone powerful enough to create this. And where does Castiel fit into this equation? If this is some sort of punishment, some sort of limbo, or something along the same lines, why is Castiel here? Who would have enough juice to get an angel trapped into a pocket universe without their knowledge or consent?

“Cas— _Castiel,”_ you start, “What do you know about tricksters?”

“You would have to be more specific than that,” he says, “I know some facts about some types of tricksters, but not all. Do you have a specific one in mind?”

“Loki.”

“ _Loki?”_ he repeats, “Do you think he’s the one who created this pocket universe?”

“I think he has something to do with it.”

He purses his lips. Leans forward in his seat. “I need you to be absolutely certain.”

“Well, _tough luck_ ,” you say, “What would Loki need to create this?”

“I—” He pauses, looking down at Junior. “Nothing. Nothing other than his powers.”

“That’s impossible. He’s—” He can teleport, something other tricksters can’t do, not on his scale. He’s trapped people in wormholes before, or so you heard. He can listen to you when you think of him, even though other demigods and most gods would need more than just a thoughtful prayer to show up, like a sacrifice, or a spell of some sort. You never questioned that, never double checked it, because if the sun decided to shine bright green one day, no one would question it, they’d just assume it’s something they haven’t discovered yet. What did Junior use to say? _It’s not a bug, it’s a feature._

“He’s _powerful._ ”

“Yeah,” you breathe, “But why?”

He grimaces. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, “He’s not the one who created this either way; he’s dead. Has been for years.”

“No, no,” you mutter, grabbing your bag and flipping it over your shoulder. “He’s alive. I saw him just before I came here.”

“Perhaps—” He gathers the rest of the stuff in his arms and follow you out. The rest of the people are still monotonic, minding their own business to an extreme. “Perhaps you’ve been here longer than you think you have.”

“That would explain the trench coat.”

He stops to look down at his clothes. “I don’t see how this is relevant,” he says, “For your information, it is very practical attire.”

“Sure it is,” you say, “Look, Castiel—” You push the glass door of the library and head towards the car. “—I left in 2012. There was a rumor he’s been dead a few years, but he showed up, so.”

“He might’ve been the creation of another trickster.”

The door squeaks as you pull it open. “Fuck you, you think I wouldn’t know the difference?”

He puts all the stuff, including some books no one inside bothered to ask him about, in the backseat. “I mean no disrespect,” he says, “I’m sure you’re an excellent hunter, but even the best hunters get tricked.”

“Well, I guess we’ll never know, will we?” you say, “Suppose he’s not dead, why would he do this?”

Castiel leans against the hood of the car. “If Loki is not dead,” he starts, “He would do this to teach you some sort of lesson.”

“ _What lesson?”_

“Only you can answer that.”

“I don’t _know_ the answer,” you say, “That’s the whole point. I don’t know—He was _there_. The last night I remember in the real world. You think if he wanted to teach me a lesson he’d at least _hint_ at it.” You pause. “No, wait a second,” you say, “You can help there. You can help me piece that night together. You said it earlier, you did it while I slept—”

“I don’t think it would be of much use. Humans see much more than they think they do,” he says, “Your brain only perceives the parts it deems relevant, but you see a lot more than that. Even when you think you fully remember, there are things you might drop because your brain tells you to.”

“What?”

“Human memory is complex. It’s directly connected to the soul—”

“Let’s just give it a shot, then—”

“If you didn’t remember it in your sleep, there’s not much else I can do.”

“ _Bullshit._ ”

Angels can read minds—better than that, they can, according to the MoL research, step into human minds in one form or another. You might have access to the final form of your memories, but he can access the raw data. He can see what you can’t. Hell, if he can check for your _soul_ , he can do more than just bring things up in your dreams. Maybe that’s a power that’s been affected by his presence here, but he didn’t even try. It’s a long shot, yes, but something in there might lead you to answers, and right now, you have no other leads. He seems to know Loki, or know of him at the very least, but that doesn’t seem to matter much as long as he insists he’s dead.

Castiel doesn’t respond, only lets himself into the passenger seat. You follow inside, your teeth gritting. “You can’t?” you ask, “Or you _won’t?”_

He stares down at his hands, and for a second there, he’s barely recognizable. Sure, you’ve only known him a few hours, but when you first met him he was this stiff, apathetic, powerful being and now he just looks so— _human._ So small. “This was a bad idea,” he says, “I can’t help you.”

You raise your eyebrows at him.

“I have my reasons.”

You huff, turning the key in the ignition. “You can go if you want,” you say, “Just leave. I won’t look for you. I won’t bother you again.”

He looks up, back at you, his eyes big and remorseful and _fuck_. “Is that what you want?”

You bury your face in your hands. “Fuck me,” you mumble, “No, that’s not what I want. Let’s just go home.”

* * *

 

Home is _fun_.

Especially when the TV isn’t functional, being on the internet feels like interacting with a bunch of bots, you don’t get hungry, and the one person you can talk to is staring at the ceiling. Has been staring at the ceiling for the past two hours actually, barely even moved. You end up making him a cup of tea, even though you’re not sure angels can eat or drink (you’d think the same people who had international research on transgender werewolves and the effect of that on the pack mentality would care to look up whether angels eat or not) and passing it to him. He takes it, no words exchanged, just a questioning look and a nod, and you feel like you could _scream._

 _He’s_ the one who’s outright refusing to help you. _He’s_ the one who’s ruining the one semi-viable lead you have. _He’s_ the one with all the power. Yet you can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. Somehow, it would’ve been better if he were some prick, like Loki, or pretty much any strangers you’ve dealt with ever since you first took on hunting. Instead, he’s just sitting there. Out of his own free will. Drinking your tea. Looking at you like a wounded puppy.

_God, give me strength. Or a way out of here, that would be good, too._

“Alright, talk.”

He fiddles with the handle of his mug. “What would you like me to say?”

“You know if I figure out how I got here, we can find a way _out_. Don’t you wanna get out?” you ask, “Back to your universe. Your garrison, or your friends—the one you talked about—those brothers?”

“I thought about it,” he says, “And I would rather stay.”

“In September 25th?” you ask, “Forever? Hey, I know I’m pretty awesome but it’s lonely in here.”

He breathes a laugh. “It’s lonely out there as well.” He takes a sip. “Lonely, and dangerous.”

Of course. That’s what it boils down to, what it always boils down to in this goddamn world—safety. Even angels are afraid, for fuck’s sake. “Hey, look,” you say, “You help me get out of here, we’ll figure it out. I know some people—good people—they’ll help me, and we’ll keep you safe. Whatever it is you’re afraid of, it’s manageable, I’m sure.”

“It’s not my safety I’m concerned about.”

“Whose then?”

“Everyone,” he says, “Everyone I know—heaven, earth, the Winchesters, _you_ , as of recently. I can’t go back. I _can’t._ ” He puts the cup down. “I want to help you, though. I will do everything—”

“Except sift through my brain?”

“Except that.”

“ _Why?”_

“Does it matter?” he asks, “A friend of mine used to say _there’s always another way,_ and it always turns out to be true. I’m sure we can find another way to get you out, back to your universe.”

You run your fingers through your hair. “I have been looking for _months_ ,” you say, your voice hoarse, “ _Months_ , stuck in here, all on my own, to the point where I have to _tell myself_ it’s just temporary, that I have another life because, goddammit, everything else screams otherwise.” You take a deep breath. “I’ve researched. I’ve traveled. I’ve talked to _everyone_. I’ve gone through every possible scenario that could’ve happened, that _could_ happen. I wondered if this is some sort of afterlife, and I’m dead, and, you know what? I haven’t completely ruled that out yet, but then you show up, all—I dunno— _you._ You give me hope, and just like that you just…”

He sits next to you, on the table. “I’m sorry.”

“ _Why?”_ you ask, pulling at his sleeve. “Is it painful? Like that thing you did with my soul? Is that why? Because I can take it. Whatever it is, I can take it.”

“It’s not painful, it shouldn’t be.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then _don’t_ —”

“It’s not that simple,” he says, “I wish it were. I can’t—I can’t know if my thoughts are mine. I can’t be certain what I do is what I want to do.” He takes your hand in his. “I stole something,” he says, “Something…valuable. It might be why I’m here. It might not be. I can’t be sure. I can’t be sure of anything.”

“What?”

“Someone might have sent me here to do you harm,” he says, “I don’t—I don’t want to. But, as I’ve recently discovered, what I want isn’t exactly relevant.”

“Someone’s controlling you?”

“Someone might be, yes.”

“Another angel?”

“Unfortunately.”

“But you’re aware of it.”

“I’ve become aware of it ‘the hard way’.”

“What happened?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“I won’t judge.”

“It’s not your judgment I’m trying to avoid.”

“Then what?”

“Mine,” he says, “I’ve done so much harm, caused so much misery and pain to those I care about in every way imaginable, and I know it’s— _bad._ I know I should face my own actions. But I—I don’t _want to._ It’s cowardly. It’s _appalling,_ but I’m afraid if I think about it, if I say it, I’ll just…”

“You’ll just?”

“I’ve been told it’s insensitive to say it out loud.”

This time, it’s your turn to opt out of talking. You pat his hand with your free one, resting your chin against his shoulder. The hunter in you wants to run, to find out just how serious this whole mind-control-harm-doing thing is, to keep your distance from the creature that can probably snap your neck in half if he thought about it hard enough, but the person in you fights. The person in you has seen enough deaths, enough pain, to know that nothing’s ever black or white. That he could be dangerous, and he probably is, but so are you. So is everyone _not_ living the vanilla, _natural_ life. Right now, he’s not a danger. He’s not an attack waiting to happen. He’s not an angel. He’s Castiel. He’s the first person you’ve talked to in months that wasn’t a repeated tape. He’s warm, and he’s peaceful, and he’s safe, no matter what he says. It’s childish, maybe, and superficial at best, but you’ve been trusting your gut feeling for quite some time now.

And your gut tells you he’s okay, for now.

“Your mistakes don’t define you, as cheesy as it sounds.”

He pulls his head back to look at you.

“It’s just something someone told me a while ago, and you know what, it works,” you say, “You’re not your mistakes.”

“Then who am I?”

You smile. “Who do you want to be?”

His lips curl up and he squeezes your hand, but he doesn’t say much else. Both of you just sit there in silence for a while: you savoring the contact, the quietness that, for once, isn’t associated with brain-killing loneliness and he—well, you don’t know what he’s getting out of this, but at least he doesn’t have the same solemn expression on his face that he did a bit earlier. At least there’s _that._

“If it is ‘Loki’,” Castiel says, after a few minutes, “And that is highly improbable, but if it is, then you’re not here.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean,” he says, “You are here, but you’re also somewhere else. A physical location, in our universe. But seeing you’re not getting hungry, or tired on your own, I’d assume you— _we—_ are just experiencing time and space from a much, much smaller scale.”

“You’re saying it really hasn’t been a day in the real world?”

“Probably.”

“So how do I break out of it?”

“He has to be the one to break you out. _Or…”_

“Or?”

“Why do you think you’re here?”

* * *

 

“You can’t stay here.”

You rubbed the bruises on your wrists after Loki’d snapped the chains loose. You didn’t know if you should talk, or he’d just tell you to shut up like he’d done before he disappeared earlier. Goddamn demigods and their goddamn weird-ass wiring. He clapped his hands in front of your face— _look at me._ “Now I should talk?”

He rolled his eyes. “I _am_ talking to you,” he said, “Look, kid. You can’t stay here. Kali’s just suspicious that you _know_ now, if she finds out you’re actually—if she finds out what’s really going on she’d do _much worse_ than just kill you, alright? She’d tail you. She’d milk you for information. You’d be tagged, _for good_ ,” he said, “No matter where you go or who you become.”

“What—”

“Don’t, don’t,” he said, “Just listen, and listen well: _you can’t stay here._ You have to disappear. If not for you then for that poor kid you’re taking for a ride. You might get away, but she won’t. Think about that,” he said, “I won’t be able to save her. Believe it or not, Kali’s not exactly my biggest fan right now.”

You stiffen.

“Ah, there it is,” he said, “Now, _go._ ”

You wanted to ask— _where?_ But it wouldn’t come out. Nothing came out. It wasn’t a struggle, either. Just as if your brain wasn’t wired to your mouth all the way.

“What are you waiting for?”

“I’m not done.”

“Did you _hear me?”_ he asked, “Move on. You have other people to shadow. I talked to Atropos, you know.”

“I am not _done._ ”

“Fine. _Fine_ ,” he said, “The things I do for you people. Tell her we’re even,” he said, “You hear me? We’re even.”

* * *

 

**2021**

“…then what?”

You cross your arms over your chest and turn to Cas, whom you insisted on calling to validate your story before you told it. The four of you sat in the room they first put you in, the door buzzed shut, so no one else would hear. “Yeah, Cas, _then what?”_

The angel mirrors your posture, eyes fixed on you. “Gabriel’s plan was thorough,” he says, “He intended for her to stay in that pocket universe until _you_ move on to your next… _target_ , at least that’s what he told me later,” he explains, “Of course, I didn’t know that at the time, so I got her out. Junior helped her disappear.”

“That’s not all.”

The Winchesters watch both of you, not a word in the air. Cas taps the metal table next to him. “I also got _you_ out of her as soon as we were out of the pocket universe.”

“You _knew?”_ Sam.

“When was that?” Dean.

“I knew the moment I touched her soul,” Cas explains, “Not what the nature of the being cohabiting with her was, but enough to know it wasn’t a demon, or something of similar…origins. And to answer your question, Dean,” he says, “That was after I—that was right after I acquired the tablet. Gabriel sensed my desperation, somehow, and he sent me in there to hide.”

“You could’ve killed me.”

“I had no reason to.” He turns to Sam. “We still don’t.”

“What are you saying?” Dean asks, “She possessed people—she watched us—she violated so many—”

“Why don’t you tell them about Kevin?”

“You—you know about Kevin?” _What else do you know, Cas?_

“I know a lot of things, Jane Doe,” he says, “Dean, Sam, I think you’ll want to hear the rest of what she has to say.”

 


End file.
